


Neither Sword nor Shield

by paintinflowers



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:07:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 65,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27605347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintinflowers/pseuds/paintinflowers
Summary: The Mage Rebellion has left its mark on Thedas, and the promise of protection has abandoned Andraste's followers...The templar order has fallen, and with it, the hope of the faithful. Amongst the survivers, The Iron Bull's Chargers remain adapting to thew world, one where rifts and demons roam. Yet, all of this is meaningless on an empty belly. As word of mouth spreads, rumors of a Herald of Andraste lands are consuming the times. Yet, despite the glorious tales weaved by the commonfolk, the gossip could never prepared Krem for the reality of Andraste's would be Champion.
Relationships: Cremisius "Krem" Aclassi/Female Inquisitor, Cremisius "Krem" Aclassi/Female Trevelyan, Cremisius "Krem" Aclassi/Original Character(s)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 11





	1. To Haven

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone,  
> I hope this message finds you well, and you are in a happy, stable place. I cannot at this time guarantee where this story will go, as my preferred writing method is rather free-spirited. I've a rough guideline, and known to stray from it's course so long as the story seems fit. I apologize if this causes any distress, but I do intend to write a "slow burn romance" to the best of my abilities. I feel like it's what "Krem" would have wanted. For the forseeable future, I've intended for this tale to coincide with the timelines of Dragon Age: Inquisition, and how a romance with this character would have properly blossomed. Of course, this is all up to my personal interpretation (hopefully enjoyable!).  
> I cannot stress this enough, the nature of a romance with Krem is complicated. In such, LGBTQIA community is often updating their preffered speech (as it should be!). I have the fullst intentions (and RESPECT) to adhere to these, so please, if in the event there is an outdated term, questionable nature, or I've misstepped, please notify me! I am a human being who is constantly growing, and learning, but most of all, I truly wish to understand to the best of my capabilities. Accompanying this wish, there will come a time where subject matter that can be triggering to readers will occur. I will do my BEST to provide a warning (in some cases, I may apply a warning at the beginning, and a warning towards the end so you may pick up "after" the incidents). For those of you who wish to ignore the warning, I will do my best, my BEST to remain authentic to the subject matter--no matter how devistating it may be (ex: depression, body dysphoria/dysmorphia,etc). As I feel anything less would be discrediting those who have experienced/experiencing such personal obstacles.  
> Writing this author's comment has been, to say the least, awkward.  
> I truly wish you all the best!  
> Until Next Time,  
> Flowers

The bite of the frigid air whistled through the mountain; its hum vibrating the trees, shaking the snow from the limbs. The landscape danced from the mountains, pushing through patches of trees before kissing at the shores of a frozen lake. The dirt roads were worn through, the snow kicked from its place with foot traffic as to be expected of the hold of Andraste’s Herald. Yet, it was not quite what Cremisius Aclassi expected, its humble abode welcomed weary travelers while clearly in dire straits itself. The frozen lake stretched through the area offering only a single dock that would bear no fish this season if it had ever been capable. Yet, at its shores, tents endured the hazardous elements. The familiar sounds of metal scrapping and shouts that he could only conclude the result of sparing to prepare for the uncertainty that remains at their doorstep. Krem huffed into his gloved hands, desperate for the warmth it might generate as he took in the sight of Haven, a dreary village on the edge of existence clutching what little hope remained in the world. The hold had certainly endured better days, the buildings age marred not only the passage of time, but by the impoverished people who dwelled within its walls. The buildings crumbled beneath the weight of the snow. The surviving Chantry occupied a majority of the quaint village, its stones withering against the unrelenting winter provided by its encompassing mountains. If it had not been for the undeniable tear in the sky, the Breech solidifying Haven’s claim as the refuge of the grand Herald of Andraste.  
A shiver quivered at the back of his neck as he tucked his arms to his sides, no, Haven was not to expectations, not that he could question its humble structures. As long as it had a fireplace and a bit of ale, Krem imagined the Chargers would settle in nicely. Forcing his way to the stable pathways made by refugees, Krem struggled against the snow that made its way past his knees, the weight of his armor only encouraging his descent into the frozen path. The occasional druffalo and mountain rams passed him by, making their way down the mountain seem effortless. Not Krem. He knew behind him, lurched the path he had made from the mountains, a grueling experience he would have to face upon his return to the Chargers, to home. “Makers arse,” he breathed to himself, gritting his teeth to prevent their chatter. His thoughts found their way to his companions.

  
_It was no secret the world had gone to shit across Thedas. At first, it was an annoyance, dodging the blasted templars and damn mages, and the likes of the sell swords who found their claim making coin in the war. Not that Krem could blame the hired hands, whether the world turned to shit or not, bellies need to be filled. As horror stories of circle mages turned blood sorcerers, and the terror of slaughter hungry templars spread throughout the lands. Krem had accepted that was it. The world had gone mad, but like the sell swords who found their way into the Mage Rebellion, the Chargers needed to eat. Pursuing a job, they found themselves at the shores of the Storm Coast. Maker’s Breath, Krem had wondered if the rain would ever let up, and had found as time continued, it was not named Sunshine Coast for a reason. Bloody rain, yet, the Chargers quickly discovered one perk of the forecast… As the damn Vents flooded the coastline, the smell of blood was washed from the shore, carried off to the Waking Sea. Just as the Chief adjusted to the new norm, and rejecting any requests that revolved around the raging rebellion, the fabric of time and space tore from its depths. “It had to be fucking demons,” The Iron Bull hissed. Krem nearly missed the slight hint of a hitch in his voice. A sickening vibration gripped at Krem’s stomach, the feeling of small bags crawling up his skin as he gripped his battle axe. Thrown into a full force charge against the fiends, it was then that Krem knew… that was it. Somewhere between Dalish promising Chief her “old elven tricks” were not to blame, and the unrelenting forces of monstrosities, Krem had concluded, the world had gone to shit._  
_In the weeks that followed the first rift, each of the Chargers did their best to continue their work, encouraging the flow of coin while pursuing their diverse attempts at coping to their new surroundings. Utilizing Bull’s unspoken fear of demons, Rocky dedicated himself to perfecting his edition of Gaatlok, which the Chief was still unwilling to share its true ingredients, damned demons are not. Thanks to his new dedication, Stitches was busier than ever, brewing poultices at every which turn. The smell was enough to knock deepstalkers on their asses. Temperamental little bastards, Krem questioned what he hated more, the dreary weather or the pack creatures. Although their presence brought out a few tales from Rocky’s childhood that made for lighthearted conversation around the fire accompanied by pints. He had noticed Grim smiling a bit during these stories. Their not-mage companion, Dalish’s once jovial laugh had grown tense, careful to avoid wandering attention from passerby. Between jobs and ales, word had carried with job offers, the truth of the Conclave had found its way to the Chargers, and accompanying their tales. As dread began to shift amongst the group, Krem caught word of an unexpected hero amongst the rubble. A champion Andraste herself stepped out from the Fade, a pillar amongst the debris believed to be the world’s salvation. The accounts varied, but all carried one true belief: the state of the world hinged on this Herald. As the time passed, Krem noticed Dalish’s overall demeanor diminished while Skinner had never appeared so merry. Unlike the rest of them, she had found her sense of joy amongst the bloodshed, something Bull took as proof of her merit. Krem believed it was validation that the Chargers were a big, dysfunctional family._  
Maker what he’d give to be with them now, rather than freezing his arse off, but, Krem suspected this was a punishment of sorts.

 _As lieutenant and, well, a familiar face amongst the humans, unlike his Qunari boss, Krem often represnted the Chargers to would-be employers, and with the tales of Andraste’s Herald consuming the word of mouth, he had received countless requests to bring to the Chief’s attention. At first, Bull had scoffed much as he did when requests for the Chargers to involve themselves in the affairs of the mages and templars. Yet, on one mission in the Hinterlands, a personal account found its way to their campsite, in the way of a farmer a wife had paid to reclaim. Dumb ass found himself lost in the woods after fleeing a bear. While Stitches looked the fool over as he had clearly tumbled his way through various foliage, tearing every which way, he shared what he had witnessed._  
_“Maker, I thought it was the end, I did.” He shivered, wincing as Stitches poked and prodded at his various scrapes and bruises. “A wraith, one of those glowy-green bastards had me, just as I had prepared myself to meet the Maker, himself, I heard it. Music, it was like music you know, the scream of the Herald of Andraste. A vision he was. I saw it, I did. He tore through the horrors. I swear, I felt the cold kiss of death, but when I opened my eyes, he was there. The wraith screamed as his blade made its way through its ----- do wraiths have gullets? No, I suppose not.” He let out a sharp breath, wretched his arm way from Stitches, “Easy, would you? Maker didn’t save me just to have you finish the demon’s job, you know.” Krem noticed Stitches’ quipped eyebrows before turning back to his work, after all, the man’s wife had offered higher coin for all of his limbs to be attached. The farmer focused on Bull, “twenty or so demons, and the Herald cut through them all to save me, a lowly farmer. Maker, perhaps I’m meant for more after all.” Skinner let out a scoff at the notion, her annoyance growing clearer the longer the story dragged out. “His group’s a lot like you lot. He had a woman with him, thick accent on that one. Tempting, but the dwarf made it clear I was better off keeping my hands to myself. The knife-ear with him, must’ve been an archer too, his bow looked a lot like hers,” he waved his hand gesturing at Dalish, who forced a smile. Skinner’s hand twitched, combating her natural urges to claim her daggers. A charmer this one._  
_“If his majesty managed to save you, how did you end up ass up, halfway down a cliff?” Bull challenged, leaning forward, carefully following the farmer’s movements. Lies, the Chief was sniffing out any indication this farmer was either a victim of some bad deep mushrooms, or fibbing out his ass._  
_Noticing the larger Qunari leaning on his every word, the farmer shied. “I, well… the woman put me on my path, and all…” he shuffled his hands nervously, “I might’ve strayed a bit, found myself face to face with a bear. Doesn’t mater, you lot have shown up, yeah? But, it’s true what they say, you know. This warrior must’ve been sent by Andraste herself, closed the rift with a wave of his hand, he did.” By that time, Stitches had concluded his examination, and the Chargers prepared to move out. Dalish quickly diminished the fire as Rocky and Grim packed what bit of pots Stitches had dragged out for his inspection. Krem had concluded as the rest of them had, the sooner they dropped this man off, the better; he was clearly rubbing everyone’s nerves._  
_“Krem,” Bull’s voice broke the silence, beckoning him to his side. “Seems the Herald of Andraste is fond of variety. Go to haven, seems to me they are in the market for some muscle.”_  
_Krem found his smirk, “Nothing to do with him killing off demons, right?” He chuckled at the speed The Iron Bull’s eyebrow narrowed, clearly unamused at the deviltry’s mention. “Ah, don’t worry about it, Chief. I’m sure we won’t see many.”_  
_“Asshole,” he muttered before pushing off on his knees. His horns glinted in the low light of the day as his eye found Krem, the other covered with a leather patch. Towering over him, Bull nodded. A final stamp approval, “Go to Haven.”_  
_“Wha? Me? Chief, I think that’s a---”_  
_“Krem, think about it. Skinner is no people person; Stitches may offer them that fucking potion, that anyone would mistake for poison. Safe bet that “poisoning” their messiah won’t bode well, and Rocky…. Damn Rocky would be confused for a Vent terrorist, and I don’t like the idea of Dalish in chains. As for Grim,” Iron Bull glanced at the man in question, “nobles prefer words.”_  
_“What of you, Chief?”_  
_The bitter laugh that followed his question reminded Krem that the Qunari was a less than common sight amongst these parts. “A foreign operative knocking on their door? They’d have m mount over the fireplace like a trophy. It’s you, Krem. Off our services, we’ll meet back at the Storm Coast. They can see us in action, so long as the coin follows.”_

  
While The Iron Bull had provided reasonable excuses for the rest of the Chargers to remain behind, so long as you ignored Krem’s nationality. In truth, he imagined it wasn’t the mention of the Herald, or the demons that found Krem trudging through the snow. It had been in the week prior when Krem suggested the Chief try a binder for his massive tits in battle. Bull had been willing enough to try it out, see if it offered him a wider range of motion, or perhaps protection, but there was only so much Krem could do to force the damn things to hold against his might. In slaying a Venatori Gladiator, the binder tore at the flex of his muscles. His breasts practically bounced at the sudden release, causing the remaining Venatori to giggle at his expense. That, Krem suspected was how he found himself mushing through the damn ice and snow. He was beginning to miss his home, even Bull’s massive tits.  
The distinct sound of neighing, and the sound of overturned snow drew Krem’s attention. Surrounded by the stuff, and the other passerby had been the various wildlife, the occasional fennec who taunted his steps. Curiousity beckoning him from his shivering, he paused, turning to face the rider. His reactions slowed by the unfamiliar dropping temperatures, Krem could not fight the swift hand that encompassed just under the cut of his armor, a weak spot between the metal sheets and leathered just above his shoulders. A small window of opportunity, and the masked rider of the lead horse claimed it. A shallow grunt forced its way out of Krem, the shock of his weight slammed upon the horse’s back, leaving his torso sore. The impact caused Krem concern as he attempted to force his way up, having taken note that the rider slid closer to the horse’s loin, allowing him limited room. A hand shoved Krem down, refusing his mobility. “Son of a bitch,” he hissed, his eyes scanning his surroundings.  
The other horses, Fereldan Forders, he assumed judging their mahogany color, the whites of their faces, and the deep hues of their manes. Beautiful, he’d admit, but it didn’t cool his anger. “Herald, there are nicer ways to greet people,” a dwarf chuckled. Krem noted the vibrancy of his chest hairs, fully displayed despite the chill. His hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, Krem noted the otherwise subtle colors of his coat, and a crossbow kept tightly on his lap. Carefully polished, and delicately tended, Krem concluded the dwarf cared more for his weapon than his own appearance, marked by the stubble that claimed his face. “We could slow down, the news isn’t going to change any,” he huffed to his companion that shared the same horse.  
“Would you prefer I drop you then?” Seated at his back, a bald elven fellow held the reigns in his graps. His feet were in the stirrups, likely due to the dwarf’s inability to do anything than cling.  
“We must notify Leliana and Josephine immediately,” a thick accent commanded. The stern nature of her voice hushed the back-and-forth of the dwarf and elf. Her horse made its way to the rider who bore Krem’s additional weight, clearly slowing his mare. Still unable to view the rider, who had snatched him from the snow, his eyes found the fierce glare of a scowling woman. Her dark hair cut short, and braids weaved across the crown of her head, a scar marred her features, cutting from her cheekbone to her jaw, a gnarly scar that accompanied with her blade at her hip, and shield at her back, Krem assumed the offender had met a fate far worse than scaring. He could hear the horses pushing forward through the snow, until their hooves contacted stable ground, “They await our news, Herald. Perhaps, this is where we part, traveler.” Flaring the reigns between her fingers, the woman tore off ahead, a stable looming in the distance past the soldier campsites Krem had seen from the mountains.  
Following her departure, Krem heard what he believed to be, “Farewell.” Before he found himself slipping from the horse’s back, thudding on the hollow ground. Dumbstruck, he watched as the rider, Herald? Had they called the rider by that title? Mouth dropped, he watched as the rider flicked their wrists, charging after the demanding woman. His ass felt sore as the final horse departed, it’s elven rider chuckling at the abruptness of the moment.  
The dwarf shrugged his squared shoulders, his smug smirk quipped as quickly as he might his crossbow. “What can I say, the Herald is a shy one,” he snickered over his shoulder as they left Krem on his ass.  
There he sat, dumbstruck for a moment before the realization passed him. Wrinkling his nose, he hissed under his breath, “Bastard.” The annoyance at the tip of his tongue, Haven had not been to his expectations, and apparently, neither had the acclaimed Herald of Andraste. Not that he believed all accounts of the Herald’s heroics, it had just never crossed his mind that the esteemed Champion was an asshole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited to add:  
> As time has past since the initial reveal of Chapter one, my own depiction has nagged at my thoughts, and I wished to clarify the paragraph depicting Krem suggeting Iron Bull consider wearing a binder. While my fullest intentions were to describe a proper binder (such as a half-binder, for those of you unfamiliar, it is similiar to a tanktop in design), I worry that readers may feel that I am depicting an unsafe practice such as using bandages. I make this clearification out of the sincerest concern for any present/future readers, your safety and health matters to me. I would never want you to consider using methods such as bandaging when there are safer options available. Just like Krem,  
> You deserve be healthy.  
> You deserve to be safe.  
> You deserved to be loved.  
> Most of all, you deserve to be you- the real you.  
> xoxo, Flower


	2. Whoever She is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haven is cold, and it's citizens even more so. Snow, a smart mouth kid, a quirky elf, and a smug dwarf--- amongst the rag-tag team that makes up the Inquisition, there is a welcoming hearth.

The cold wind nipped at his neck, the chantry walls offering very little protection, only a slight adjustment from the mountains he hailed from. He could hear the arguing, voices over voices within the large frame doors, messengers of various sorts: elves, humans, dwarves, and those of mixed origins flooded past him. Leaving messages before a large tent that nestled before the Chantry. Must be the lair of the famed spymaster that a few passersby had mentioned under hushed breaths. What seemed a refuge for those surviving the Conclave, and others on religious voyages were misplaced. Upon making his way through the threshold of Haven, the natives of the village were distant, wearily glancing at Krem. Those who were willing to speak to him, were brief in nature, only offering gestures towards the Chantry, little to no words. Krem had to wonder if Grim was a native of this region, and if not, perhaps, he would feel at peace amongst the people.

Their unwillingness to speak to him bled into the workers of the Inquisition, Krem noted as despite his best efforts, none would speak to him. As the voices within the Chantry raised, a yelling match between what he assumed must be superiors, Krem reached out to an elf, who was making her way towards the spy tent in question. Wide eyed at the grasp on her shoulder, her dark hair only increased the paleness of her skin; one would have thought Krem had slapped the young lady as she jerked away. “I’ve a message for the Inqu----”

“Pardon me!” She cried, quickly ducking her head into an awkward bow before skittering off.

Krem heaved out a sigh, leaning against the large pine tree that cupped at the Chantry’s side. He could make out little of the conservation within its walls, but understood from the voices that carried, a dispute must’ve been occuring between officials on opposing sides. “---make a decision,” the words carried certain merit, someone who tired of bickering, clearly. Krem leaned a hand into the bark of the tree, he could feel the curvature of the tree beneath his glove, tracing them quietly, contemplating his current options. Bull had given him a job; to date, the lieutenant had never failed his commander… He didn’t intend to start the habit, he concluded, facing out towards the boisterous voice of a woman nearby, gathering supplies and filling inquiries. Krem gritted his teeth, right. He would deliver his message, and find his way back to the Chargers- to his home, and preferably with distance between the bastard Inquisitor, lest he lose his temper. Pushing from the tree, the crack was deafening. A sound Krem knew well as Skinner had a tendency to snap branches when she flung into the fray. “Shit,” he cursed under his breath as the limb above gave way to the weight of the piling snow.

Snow, damn snow. At one point, Krem thought he’d enjoy snow at some point, perhaps when the day came to settle down and raise a family, but its chances were fleeting. Pulling himself from the mound of snow the tree had plundered upon him, he offered only cruses at the substance. Slowly, and surely, he wrenched himself from the snow pile; damn stuff was everywhere in his boots, his armor, trousers, hair, and even on the ridge of his nose. Yes, gone were snows’ chance of favored weather. He hated the stuff. More curses slipped from his lips as he managed his way from the remainder, dragging a bit out it with him. It wasn’t until he heard giggles, that it occurred to him, he had onlookers. Coming from the path, he could see children of varying ages, the younger ones chuckled at his misfortune. The tips of his ears burned as the oldest of them, a boy of perhaps fourteen emerged from the group. “Oi, milk drinker. Best watch your words, there are ladies present,” the slightest crack in his voice confirmed his age, and his quip temper did no favors.

“Smart mouth kid, aren’t you?” Krem quipped doing his best to shake the snow from his clothes.

The kid advanced towards him. His hair glimmered in the sunlight; his blonde brows drawn into a scowl. “Better a smart mouth than a milk drinker crying in the snow. Look at you, pitiful, really.” For one so young, he had a lot of bite, and Krem was holding onto his last bit pf patience, having been spread thin throughout his time in Haven. “Irail, milady won’t be happy if she hears you speak like that,” a little whispered, her head leaned forward, shy perhaps. Her darks kin contrasted the quick-tongue boy, and from the passing glance he provided her, Krem suspected puppy love was present in his young heart. His finger twirled at a lock of hair as gently glanced up at him. “Flora, he started it. People are trying to work, and here he is like a lay-about.” He jabbed a finger at Krem, who clung to his last bit of patience. Fleeting, really.

“But, Irail, he has tried to speak to the others; they’ve just been too busy to notice him,” the girl countered, her deep brown eyes catching Irail’s attention. His green eyes wandered, clearly softened by the girl’s words. A notion, Krem couldn’t quite understand. While he was no stranger to passing fondness, the clear adoration Irail held for this young lady was foreign, and a part of him, felt a bit jealous of the lad. “I think milady would like to speak to him.”

The scowl deepened on Irail’s face, freckles obscuring his attempt at a severe look. Jabbing a finger at Krem, who once again found himself put out by the lad’s attitude. “You’re lucky Flora is here, you know.” While meant to be a threat, Krem found himself smirking at the brazen claim.

“Seems I am,” Krem nodded.

A wrinkle of his round nose, Irail parted ways with the other children, who were ushered by his love. Guided by her hand, the kids parted with smiles on their faces, laughing one last time as they waved goodbye. Krem couldn’t recall the last time he heard children’s laughter, or well, laughter for that matter. Amongst the stern habitants of Haven, their warmth was a welcomed discovery--- even if their leader was a mouthy brat. His eyes found Irail as he pushed open the Chantry doors, the squeal of old metal consuming the village.

The same shrill of withered hinges hissed through the air as Krem made quick work of ridding himself of the last of snow, well, what hadn’t melted against the heat of skin. Unimpressed as ever, Irail was the first he saw, the same accusatory jab in his direction. Brat, Krem thought to himself, righting his armor. His finger dabbed at the last bit of the damned snow from his shoulder, his eyes meeting with another’s. Matching his gaze, eyes the color of Thedas’s smoothest whiskey watched him, a gentle mien hidden in their depths. Within them, he could only imagine the sweet bite of their fire, but guaranteed the desired warmth on the most frigid of Haven’s nights. Warm, inviting, and gentle, her gaze was like being wrapped in a snug blanket, kept by the fire, and the yearning to be bundled up with them. Thick locks of rich honey hair cascaded past her shoulders, merely enhancing her porcelain complexion. Wrapped in what Krem assumed was Sturdy Enchanter Armor, although he questioned what involvement a mage would have in the Inquisition, her gaze softened as she appraised him. His eyes found the book holstered at her hip, the desire to discover what secrets she kept within the pages. Not that Krem considered himself a noisy man, but the enigma of this unnamed beauty etched at his surface, delving deeper than he could ever expect. So much so, that he missed her words, soft in nature. “Sir, are you alright?” Urging her hands forward, Krem noticed the intricate designed blanket bundled in her arms, the piercing gaze of a warhorse peaking from its folds. “You’ll c atch your death like that, please,” she offered once more.

“Oi, pervert,” Irail said, irritation buried into his words. “Lady Trevelyan is talking to you.”

“Manners, Irail,” she sighed softly; Krem detected a hint of exhaustion in her tone as she once again offered the blanket.

Krem shook his head at the gesture. He could feel his ears burning, brat. “E-excuse me, I’ve got a message for the Inquisition, but I’m having a hard time getting anyone to talk to me.” He swallowed the lump in his throat and kicked off the bit of snow on his boots, regaining himself under her gaze.

“Irail, a moment please,” she instructed, a small touch of stern as Krem noticed the wariness that briefly passed her features. Irail scoffed at Krem before glancing at the Lady Trevelyan. Krem wondered perhaps it was the concern of a child. Irail shuffled his boots away, something weighing heavily on his mind. Concern for his lady, Krem concluded as she offered the lad a parting smile before turning her attention to Krem. The fondness erased from her features as she pressed her lips into a fine line. “May I have your name, soldier?” Manners, a trait he was no longer versed in and felt unfamiliar, but brought a smile to Krem’s features none the less.

“Cremisius Aclassi, friends call me Krem.” He responded, “I’m with The Bull’s Chargers, mercenary company. W’ere professionals, often working out of Orlais and Nevarra. Although we’ve been known to work in other regions, so long as the coin is good.”

“I see, Sir Aclassi.”

Krem couldn’t prevent the light hearted chuckle that passed his lips. Sir, he thought gleefully to himself. From her title offered by the children, and manners of speech, sir was entirely inappropriate. Perhaps Sirrah, but, the second thought of her calling the Chief “sir” brought another chuckle to his lips before the redness of her cheeks caught his attention. Had the cold touched her face, or had he shamed her? “Krem, please milady.” The offer in part was brought by his status, but a hidden longing to hear his name on her lips.

“Krem, then,” she smiled, her eyes finding the snow as she tucked a warm smile that rounded her cheeks. The reaction only encouraged Krem at the sound of her voice. “I would be happy to deliver your message for you if you are willing to leave it with me.” Yet, the question of this woman’s involvement in the Inquisition burned his mind, but as more scouts tread pass, offering the young lady a nod as they went, Krem let the wary notion go. Just as the farmer had claimed, the group seemed to be eclectic, who was Krem to question her role?

Straightening his back, Krem concluded if he crossed paths with Iral, that little ass again, he would offer the lad a comfit. “My commander, Iron Bull sends his regards, and offers a bit of information to the Inquisition. We’ve received word of Teventer mercenaries porting in the Storm Coast.”

“At what cost does this information come,” she inquired, tilting her head and allowing the weave of braids in her hair to fall to the side. He noticed her fingers fiddling with a tear in the blanket she had offered him. Perhaps weathered by age, but easily mendable if given the time.

Krem shook his head. It seemed being the son of a tailor would stay with him despite how far he found himself from Tevinter. “Free of charge,” he concluded, doing his best to make eye contact with the woman. “Listen, Bull thinks you’re doing good work, and he wants to join, for a price. We’re tough, we’re loyal, and we don’t break contracts. Ask around, we’ve plenty of references.” He adjusted his posture, feeling comfortable with the progression of the conversation. “We’re professional mercenaries, but not heartless, we live by a code.”

“A code?”

“Yeah, no innocents, and the last ale goes to the higher up present,” Krem recited before giving her a laugh. “Chief says it’s an observed Qunari right, but I think he just likes his drink.”

Her eyes widened as she leaned forward, curiosity brimming. “Qunari?”

“Ugh, yeah.” Krem back tracked, shifting uneasily on his heel. Bull had been wary of his race being mentioned, the claimed reason he hadn’t come himself, and here, Krem had let the information slip to a pretty face. “You know, big guys with the horns. A-Anyways, if your Inquisitor would like to see what the Bull’s Chargers can do for the Inquisition, meet us at the Storm Coast.”

“I’ll see your message delivered,” she nodded. Lady Trevelyan bit at her lip, “how long will you be in Haven, Krem?”

The question was unexpected, and brought him a bit of satisfaction. The possibility he had drawn her interest as she had his, but the command of his officer loomed over him. “With my message delivered, I best be getting back to the Chargers.”

“I see,” she hummed, turning her head to glance at the campsite below the ridge before them. “Irail told me you’d fallen in the snow… would you consider warming yourself by the fire while I replenish your supplies for the journey?”

“Oh, no,” Krem waved his hand, “it isn’t necessary my lady.”

Her smile was warm, and Krem felt sure it was more than enough to defrost his trousers. “Brion. My friends call me Brion.” Shifting the blanket into one hand, the other found Krem’s, tugging him forward. In a rush, she guided him by the fireside, encouraging him to bask in the warmth of its glow. Oblivious to the comfort she alone provided. She was swift, he had to admit. Making quick work of wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, hints of vanilla in the air. “Please.” She pushed before disappearing down the trail, towards the Chantry in a hurry.

“Glad to see you made it, was beginning to worry you had frozen your ass off,” a familiar laugh drew his attention from her absence. The all too bold curls of chest hair rolling as he laughed. The very dwarf from before stood before him, a substantial bit shorter than himself, but Krem noted the confidence he carried despite his stature. Like Rocky, size didn’t occur to this man as he crossed his arms, a knowing smile framing his face. “Gotta admit, doomed romance is a nice addition to any book.”

_Doomed romance_ , Krem questioned raised an eyebrow under the dwarf’s thoughtful gaze. Before he was granted the chance to respond, a female elf slunk her way into the mix, smelling a bit of ale. She let out a playful chuckle, “a smutty one, right? Of course.” Shaking her cropped blonde hair, her eyes found Krem’s. Her smirk felt poised, and razor sharp. Ready for an argument, she shook her head. “Was curious her type. This? Wasn’t expecting it. But nice. For reasons.”

“I give it a week,” the dwarf responded.

“Pardon?” Krem interjected, lost amongst their odd argument.  
“Think you’re so bright. Knowing what her ladybits likes,” the elf retorted, her accusation growing. Maker, what was happening?

“Sera, Varric, no.” Brion sighed, carrying a packed knapsack. Her eyes were closed as if taking a pause from the ridiculous banter before her, which Krem himself struggled to understand. Shaking her long hair, she held a small smile finding herself amongst friends. A rad-tad group he hadn’t expected, and yet, she seemed relieved by their silly dispute. “Here, for your travel.” Forcing the bag into his hands, Krem glanced at it curiously. Rations, medicine, bandages, and really anything he may need for the road back was filled to the brim; the knapsack heavy with its weight.

“Brion, this isn’t necessary,” he reassured her, but noticed how her smile brightened, “but thank you.”

“Oooooooh, first names. Moves quick, doesn’t he?” Sera teased as Brion escorted him to the gates.

Past the threshold, Krem was reminded of how unforgiving the elements were. Leaving her side was dreadful, left to the cold. Yet, Brion smiled softly at him, footsteps echoing on the stone path way. Her hips swayed with each step, drawing his attention, and Krem had to wonder if it was intentional or just natural with the width of her posterior. Either way, he pursued her, hanging on her words. Before them, a magnificent warhorse towered over them. Ears forward, and jaw slacked, the beast released breaths through relaxed nostrils, greeting Brion with a neigh. Welcoming Brion’s touch, it rested it’s muzzle in her caress. “Skadi is swift, and I’ve grown quite fond of her. I trust she’ll see you back to your companions.” Edging the makeshift kennel open, she guided the Fereldan Forder forward, providing Krem with the reigns, which he accepted with uncertainty. The horse was familiar, and it appraised him with hesitation. Couldn’t blame the beast, horseback riding was not a pass time Krem pursued.

“My lady---”

“Brion.”

“Brion, I assure you. I can manage without your mount.”

“Yes, I’ve seen your fondness for snow,” she giggled. Maker it was beautiful, but something in the statement gave him pause. A sense of unease that nagged at his thoughts, but the source of which, he could not place. Curious as she held his hand, folding his fingers over the reign. “Please, consider it an apology for Skadi toss you to the snow. Once you’ve made it back to the Chargers, release her. You needn’t worry, no matter the distance, she always finds her way home.”

While Krem heaved himself on the horse’s back, Brion’s fingers worked nimbly, tightening the fastens of the knapsack she provided. Ensuring the bag was within his reach, her beautiful eyes stroked a fire of determination as she looked up at him, a boldness he had yet to see on the seemingly shy woman. “We shall send word when we depart for the Storm Coast. Tell your command, I look forward to meeting him.” With that, Brion left his side, offering only a gentle word of safe travels, but there it was. The smallest word that caught his ears as the horse turned from her side, charging into the snow. “Farewell.” Glimpsing over his shoulder, he could make out her form as she saw him off, her parting word ringing through his ear. The pieces dangling in his grasp: the knowing chuckle of Varric, Brion’s willingness to hear his message, and better yet, deliver it while avoiding the mention of her title amongst the Inquisition.

His brow wrinkled considering the clues. The farewell of the masked rider, who he knew to be the Herald of Andraste as he carelessly tossed Krem to the snowdrifts, leaving him behind in a rush. Yet, the images were not coherent. Brion, a mage amongst the Inquisition possessed a gentle heart, firm at guiding the manners of a spirited lad, who not only wrapped him in what he could assume was a personal, well used blanket of hers, but allowed her mount to guide him home… was it her mount? “Skadi,” he probed, leaning to study the horse’s reaction. “Would your master be the Herald?” The scoff as the horse flared its nostrils, shaking its mane at the inquire failed to reassure Krem. While intelligent, what good would questioning a warhorse do him? The wind caught on his shoulders, tugging at the blanket Brion had left behind. His fingers caught the fabric as he let out a small curse. In the rush, he had forgotten to return it upon their departure. Pulling it into his lap to prevent its misplacement, he couldn’t prevent the smile that tugged at the opportunity to see the curious mage once more. While Krem questioned the motives of Andraste, having sent a bastard for a Herald, he doubted the Bride of the Maker would ever provide a mage as salvation. Yet, he couldn’t fight the unease in his gut as the piercing gaze of the warhorse heaved into the blankets as if whispering what Varric had said upon their meeting, _doomed romance_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have an increasing unease of dialogue.  
> Fun Fact: Brion, a Celtic name meaning brave, virtious.  
> Best Wishes  
> -Flower


	3. Drop the Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home at last, Krem has missed the Chargers, but despite his best efforts, he is still thinking of the curious mage he met in Haven. Quick to pick up on the change, the teasing from his family has only just begun.

In the time of his absence, the Storm Coast had yet to stray from his expectations. Reliable as ever, the rain pelted down from the mountains, brushing against the sea. The crumbling architecture abandoned by the dwarves loomed in the distance. Uninviting to some, and a marvel to others, to whom, Krem was unsure. Not Rocky, that much he knew. He recalled the annoyed curse Rocky spat at the paragon statue near their original campsite when they had first arrived in the area. That had been some time ago, when they encountered their first rift, a distant memory that trembled down Krem’s spine. Magic, he should’ve been used to it by now, and in some ways due to his upbringing, he was, but in others, he found the potential of mages frightening. Yet, all of these moments seemed so far away as he appraised the familiar land before him, Skadi’s reigns still between his fingers. The howl of the wind broke the sky as the Waking sea thrashed against the dangerous shoreline. From his spot at the peak, Krem could make out forsaken boats, torn asunder by the treacherous rocks that offered no warning to their depths. Many lives had been lost on these shores, claimed by the ever-changing sea, even the most seasoned fishermen known to be stranded amongst the waves. The crumbling stones offered no safe landing, tearing from the mountain side. The mist rolled in from the waves, engulfing the surrounding areas, and concealing the forests and mountains that lay further inland. Through the sheet of rain, Krem could faintly see the path down the mountain, steep, and slippery. He had to wonder how many had lost their footing on the trail, biting the jagged rocks below. Yes, Krem knew it was time. Accompanied by the thundering boom of dragons and giants in the distance, Krem turned to his accompanying mount. “This is where we part ways,” he instructed, delicately wrapping her reigns to prevent any snagging on her voyage home. Skadi’s deep eyes followed him, carefully regarding him before nudging her muzzle forward. A small smile tugged at his lips as he patted her, “thank you for seeing me home. Hope to see you again.” Huffing through her nostrils, Skadi delicately turned, diligent in her steps as she departed from his side. While his heart longed for the abrasive jargon of the Chargers, Krem saw Skadi off, ensuring her safety down the opposite mountain side. Sure footed, and exercising caution of experience, the warhorse met no obstacles, sprinting forward perhaps reminded of the mage waiting for her at home. Krem bit his lip, still unsure of the enigma poised by the Lady Trevelyan as he made his way back, but tucked the questions away, he would need his wits about him. The path that lay before him would need all of his attention.

Pebbles tumbled down the path as Krem cautiously hiked down the trail. His hand finding the mountain side carefully. Much like his disadvantage in Haven, Krem found himself soaked to the bone, the rain seeping into every poor at its availability. The wind whipping which way, it felt like a lifetime on the cliff as he trudged through, determined to see his beloved Chargers once more. The moment his thoughts left the cliff side, his boot sagged on an embedded stone, shifting his weight forward. Quickly clinging to the ridges of the mountain side, he was able to regain himself, righting his mind at the task before him. Little by little, his feet found his way pass the edges, his boots tossing the various pebbles below as he landed at the shore side. Bits of grass stuck to him in the muck, but the welcoming of a glow in the distance propelling him forward. The familiar arguments reaching his ears, Krem knew he had found his way back home to the Chargers.

_Screams filled the narrow corridors; blood puddled, the stench of iron staining the elaborate carpets. Nails scrapped the stone walls, desperately clawing the cobblestone. Ignoring the torn fingernails, the mages of the Ostwick Circle begged for salvation, desperately clinging to the word of the Maker in their final moments. Among them, Brion collapsed on the ground, her fingers clinging at her hair. The sickening stench of iron struck her dizzy, freezing in her place. The whispers etched at her skin like spiders crawling across her surface. Her stomach turned at her words, twisted, and morbid. Blood dripped from the walls, the ceilings as the templars rampaged. Horrors possessing their bodies; the order had fallen. The circle had fallen, and Anraste had forsaken her followers to the purge, no hope in sight. Irail dug his fingernails into her arm, screaming her name Adrenaline coursed through her as the templars tore through the last defense the mages had constructed. Bodies laid to waste; the very people who had raised her, who she studied with, eat with, and shared in sheltered life rotted before her. Irail cried in anguish, half sobbing as a templar at his arm, wrenching her from his side. Rage claimed her as his fingers slipped from her grasp, no. If they wished to take the boy from her, only death would part her from her ward, and they would know pain, they would know suffering. She would see the Ostwick reduced to rubble, brick by brick with her bare hands if it was what it took to protect the child. “MILADY,” screamed through her thoughts, choking her with fear and unkempt horror. “MILADY!”_

Brion clutched at her sheets, sweat beaded her brow. Fighting for air, her lungs threatened to collapse under the terror that griped her heart as she scanned her surroundings. Her shoulder high and her hair on end, the stone walls reflected the dim candlelight, a dreary interior greeting her from her dreams. Snowflakes clung to the window panes, the ornate glass reflecting the Chantry’s chant in images. The tapestries were bland, the mark of Andraste sewn into the linen; the same writing desk with old books left on its surface. The parchment still left untouched as Brion felt her body relax. The banging on the wood door as the old hinges wailed upon their opening was chilling, the same voice from her nightmares beckoning her attention. “My lady, Skadi has returned.”

Her eyes found Irail’s; she had forgotten they were a lovely shade of summer warmed grass. In the time that the circle had collapsed to their time in Haven, she had regained his trust, and in the same set, Irail had grown from a nervous little boy into a courageous young man that stood before her. Nestled in light leathered armor, and ruck sack paints, she noticed a belt at his hip, the small blade threaded through a loop. His feet had grown, fitting into men’s boots, loose at the calf and slouchy in nature. His fingers hung on the door, peeking from leathered gloves. His blonde hair had been cropped close, shaved at the sides, and all visions of the boy she had known were slipping away. Brion smiled, trying to calm the pause of concern he offered, no matter how he might age, she could still read him as though he were a child. “Is she well?”

“Yes, milady,” he nodded, “well fed, Master Dennet says.” His shoulders dropped with her movement as she slowly pulled himself from the bedding, lethargic as the sleepless nights bore their toll. Softly she crept to her desk side, readying the quill in slow, steady gestures. The fall of the Ostwick Circle weighing heavily on her bones as Irail treaded to her side. “Perhaps, you should speak to Ambassador Montilyet. She is weary of these “Chargers”, you know.” Yes, all evidence of the boy she had raised had taken its leave, barely the whisper of who he once was. With the Mage Rebellion, change had claimed the baby-face lad who warmly welcomed those new to his path to the cautious man, uneasy of outsiders. This was the true tax of the times, robbing people of their security, and kindness. The very boy who wished to practice magic despite lacking the gift, now snuck off to Cullen’s side, believing her naïve. Yet, Brion could only offer an affectionate smile, perhaps this was what the Maker intended. With the fall of the order, like any boy aspiring into manhood, Irail dreamed of glory.

“I shall see this through.”

Word from the Inquisition arrived shortly after Krem had parted ways with Skadi, perhaps a good sign of faith at the return of a beloved mount, who claimed Skadi as their own weighed heavily on Krem’s thoughts as his fingers worked their way through the detailed weave of the heavy blanket that accompanied him from Haven. Mindful of the design, he worked diligently on the cloth at hand. His brow knit at the mystery of the bastard Inquisitor. He had to admit, the looming interlude with the asshole nagged at his thoughts, a bitter memory of landing on his ass in the snow. Yet, despite his better nature, Krem realized the mystery of Brion’s role in the scheme of the Inquisition drew his ire. In the pit of his stomach, something fell, something unattainable, and out of grasp. Perhaps, it was the lack of confidence that nagged at the question. The letter signed in her hand; her name etched elegantly on the parchment drew uncertainty. The Chargers expected the Inquisitor, and Brion promised her presence as well. In that statement, the slightest hint of intimacy between the two, the Inquisitor and Lady Trevelyan. Lost in his thoughts, Krem remained faintly aware of his companions despite having missed them so. The promise of coin had sparked conversation amongst the group, as Krem was settled between Dalish and Stitches. Grim stood, quietly watching the shore line that lay just before their campsite. Nearby, Skinner sharpened her blades preparing for the demonstration upon the Venatori’s impending arrival. Rocky rummaged through his knapsack, tossing what he deemed unsuitable over his shoulder, earning a curse from the Chief. “Goddamn, watch where you throw those things.”

“You’re not even trying anymore,” Stitches scolded as if speaking to a small child. The treatment not brought on by Rocky’s stature. “It’s only a matter of time before I grow tired of bandaging you up.”

Rocky glanced up, turning his head which way as his companions eyed him, wary of his absent-minded tendencies. A clumsy shrug of his shoulder as a grin spread across his face before turning his attention to his goods. “Gotta be sure we’ve some goods tuff. Wouldn’t want to disappoint,” he chuckled, his mustache swishing. His quick rummaging causing various bottles to clink against one another, triggering a wince from Dalish. Her knuckles clutched at her “bow” as Skinner glared at him, pointing a sharp knife his way. Her warning missed the mark; Rocky only raised his hand, briefly. “It’s fine, it’s fine.”

“Krem, what is it you’re working on,” Dalish asked, her soft smile catching her attention.

He could feel her curious gaze, eyeing the project in his lap as she leaned forward for a better look. Obscuring her view from the blanket, he tucked it carefully behind his back, his eyes searching the trees for some excuse at the clearly Free Marchers design, which was misplaced amongst his belongings. He bit at his lip before mumbling out a half assed excuse, “got it from a merchant on my way back, gotta bargain.”

“Didn’t take you for the kind to buy a torn family crest,” Stitches observed.

The Iron Bull provided a wide grin, displaying his teeth as he fought back a laugh. “A merchant in these parts? Can’t imagine he’s turning a profit.”

“Well, I—”

“Probably got it from the girl,” Rocky teased as he continued examining his mixtures.

“There’s no girl,” Krem lied, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the blanket behind his back.

Skinner’s snickering was cut off by Bull. “Oh, there’s definitely a girl.” Shifting his head, and shaking the rain that slid down his horns, the Chief’s eye found Krem’s.

“Same one who gave him the bag,” Skinner added.

“But messing with noble girls is messy shit,” Bull warned.

Dalish giggled, “but fun.”

“Until a blast sends you ass up in her bloomers,” Rocky interjected. The silence dawning the weight his words carried as he looked up from his knapsack, his senses now heightened. “Nothing—” he shook, “I said nothing.”

“Oh, you’ve said a lot,” Bull responded, smug as ever.

Krem trembled, the image permanently etched into his mind’s eye. “I’ll never get that image out of my head.”

Dalish jerked to her feet, “is that where my trousers have gone?” The redness of Dalish’s anger matched the embarrassment that encompassed Rocky’s features as he avoided her gaze. Pretending to stare at a far-off tree as Dalish laid in a series of insults, some of which Krem could not even understand. As her temper flared, her tongue varied from the common tongue to Elvish. Although Krem could have sworn she had called him a number of rightfully earned words, but noted the hiss in her voice. “Dirthara-ma!”

Thankful for the distraction, albeit a deeply concerning one, Krem quickly tucked the blanket away in the knapsack. His heart sank, as he felt a weighted gaze on his shoulder. Parted from the group as he tucked it amongst his belongings, he realized the Chief had yet to realize Krem from the accusation. “Messy shit, be careful,” he warned, the closest to concern Krem had ever witnessed on the Qunari.

“Chief?”

Shaking his head, Bull jerked his head to the cliffs above their campsite, his eyebrow narrowing. Rolling his shoulders and stretching his muscles, it was clear something had drawn his attention. Glancing over his shoulder, Krem could make out another campsite just above theirs. The banner of the Inquisition weaved into the tents indicating their allegiance. Worn against the rain, the trembled from the weight of the climate. Looming from a perch, a scout appraised the Chargers carefully. From the where he stood, Krem assumed the woman’s short stature was that a dwarf’s, only though potential a human obscured by distance. Her light armor, the same colors that had decorated Haven’s grounds around the potential lair of the spymaster Krem had withdrawn from. Krem shivered against the rain, gritting his teeth. “About that time,” Bull stated, turning towards the Chargers. Grim released a grunt that drew him forward. Standing next to the man, Bull appraised the shoreline as his lieutenant pursued him, his grip finding his battle axe. Before them, a fire ship baring the markings of the Venatori shattered against the rocks, metal scrapping the sides. Krem could feel his heart slam against his rib cage. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as the wind shattered the silence of the impending battle. “Horns up.”


	4. One and the Same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The clash of steel and iron, bloodshed is an occupational hazard for the Chargers, especially when Rocky's involved. A bit of tampering an unplanned detonation bring to light a harsh reality. Vashedan, Rocky.

Her clothes clung to her sides, the leather hanging on every curve as she surveyed the land. Lady Trevelyan could feel the tense of her muscles, tired from the journey to the Storm Coast, rolling her shoulders in an attempt to fight off the weariness of travel. Damp strands unwinding from the braids that contained her hair into a ponytail, her coat slick with the mud of having slipped a few times on the trail, only contributing to the wear of exhaustion endured by her body. Muscles ached. Rubbed raw from the rain that continued to pelt her skin and strip the stones of their traction, the staff strapped to her back did little to aide her weight distribution. As her eyes found Scott Harding, a freckled dwarf who despite the drenched climate, offered her a grin in a way that had yet to waiver since their initial meeting. “Welcome Inquisitor.” The freckles on her face prominant as her reddish hair was soaked, shifting on her heels, “not much to see I’m afraid.”

“Have you found the Chargers?”

Nodding quickly, Harding’s hand rubbed the back of her neck. “Yes, of course! They’re down this ridge, a funny group.” Brion noticed the curve of her smile, and was reminded that in her brief moments with Scout Harding, why she found her sincerity refreshing. “I kind of like them, but I don’t think Lady Josephine will approve.” Upon her soft, round face, the Scout stood little to no chance at hiding secrets, and at times, Brion had wondered how that might impact her work. Yet, she suspected, it was a trait that Leliana enjoyed herself, whether or not she would admit it was another matter entirely.

“Thank you for your hard work.” Her fingers wrapping around her staff, Brion nodded to her accompanying companions, the mission in place, it was time to depart from their camp. Varric Tethras at her side, wiggling his eyebrows at the Scout, who remained unaware of his flirting advances. Eagerness bit at the Lady Trevelyan as she breathed in the rain, the smell of iron and the coastal wind. At the realization of Harding’s naivety, his gaze shifting to the Herald. Curious at the drift, “What?”

Having realized the Herald’s readiness, he held Bianca with both hands, quipping a smile as he shrugged his shoulders. “Oh, nothing, just wondering how Pretty Boy is doing.”

“Pretty boy?” Casandra repeated, surprise etched into her sharp features. Her quick steps made joining their side easy work, as her eyes grew wide at Varric’s sudden dispersal of information, well what pieces he had weaved together as Brion suspected was the production of his Champion of Kirkwall.

“Oh yeah, Seeker. You missed it,” Varric teased, elbowing Brion ever so slightly. “Herald is so infatuated; she didn’t know what to do with herself.”

Solas’ eyebrows met curiously, a sense of worry. “In times of uncertainty, it is natural to want company.”

“Or sex.” Varric retorted, a devious smile, “Practically writes itself.”

Cassandra’s wide eyes and opened mouth as she prepared her sword at her side. Her imagionation was running wild, hanging on every detail Varric spared. The fantasies she was weaving brought heat to Brion’s cheeks as she stayed a few paces ahead of the group, biting her lip. “I did not know the Inquisitor had met someone,” she whispered, engrossed in the tale Varric strung of the “fated encounter.” The accusations hung on her mind, romance should be the last thought on her mind as she wandered to the edge of the cliffs, following the trek down the path in search of the Chargers- not Krem of course. Though the thought of his smirk brought a smile to her own, not that seeing the solider was a disadvantage by any mean. Without realizing it, her pace had quickened, leading the group forward in her haste until the distinct sound of metal scrapping metal froze her in her rushed steps.

The dread filled her features, her eyes widen at the confirmation offered by the companions around her. Cassandra’s cheekbones had drawn into a quick scowl, her eyebrows twitching as her hands found her blade and shield. Since their journey through the Hinterlands, Brion had noted Cassandra’s scars seemed to tremble as the warrior readied herself for impending forces. Solas fell into a natural crouch, weary of his surroundings, a trait Brion suspected he had earned in the wilds during his time as a hermit. Not that he enjoyed the term. Varric drew himself from the group, his fingers laced at the ready on Bianca’s trigger as the sounds of shouting carried on the winds. The howl of the rain soaking their weapons, Brion crept forward, cautiously peering over the ledge. Fire whizzed past her at an upward arc. A misfire of some sort, her reflexes narrowly saving her singed eyebrows. Gritting her teeth, below her, she could make out a skirmish, the sickening scent of blood staining the soil. Wincing from the all too familiar battle prowess of battle drawn mages, throwing magic without consideration, a sense of urgency coursed through her veins, the clear intent of her companions. Her eyes scanned the battlement before her, as her eyes strayed to a familiar set of armor, its back turned to the cliff from which she hailed. His movements were fluid, somewhere between graceful and sporadic, moving with the flow of battle. “The Chargers,” she confirmed, nodding her head to her companions. Without speaking, the group nodded at the only conclusion, the element of surprise was useful tool, one they intended to utilize. As Casandra brought up the front, leading their group. She was their warrior, first line of defense and offense; Brion spared one last glance over her shoulder before parting from the cliff’s edge. Hesitation containing her to the location, her eyes on Krem, his battle axe in mid swing as an advancing Venatori sought to seize the opportunity.

The scream of a woman rattled his bones, his breath hitching at the touch of winter hung at his side followed by the distinct growl of a Venatori stalker. The bastard’s arm caught in a shield of ice; he jabbed his free blade in a fruitless effort to crack its surface. The shock wore from Krem immediately, his axe biting down upon his opponent. Swinging his axe to those around him, his quick response tearing through another defense line. Damn Vents seemed to be endless, as their allies cut down, more sprang from the ships. Amongst the fighting, Krem could make out the tense of Iron Bull’s broad shoulder. Blood shed by their sides as the magic weaved around them in a way that felt unfamiliar to the Chargers. Unlike Dalish’s “archery tricks”, warmth was laced into the incantation, sheltering them from stray blows. Where Dalish was prone to charging forward, a rightful trait of any Charger, there was a stead-fast dedication to protect with this mage’s intentions. Recognizing the call of aid from the mountains, a female form charged from their safety, her sword and shield drawn before throwing herself into the fray, not one to shy away from the battle. The scene was endless, the shouts of Teventer language on the tongues of their enemies. Arrows whizzed past, one nicking Krem’s cheek before buried its way into a Venatori Zealot. The bind of the steel arrow jutting from the small opening of the victim’s helmet, a damn good shot, he had to admit, only confirming that none of his companions had such techniques at their disposal. The Inquisition was among them, not content with merely spectating. A habit sure to draw the Chief’s favor. “So, the warrior or the mage,” Bull laughed as he ran another Vent through.

“Is now the best time,” Krem coughed as shield bashed into his side, an invisible force shouldering the brunt of the impact. Whose incantation, he could not say, but thankful for the intervention nonetheless.

“Bettin’ on the mage,” Dalish giggled as her glowing arrows found their targets, twirling every direction in which the wind guided her steps. The Dalish elves had truly a different flow of battle from what Krem was taught under the Tevinter Imperium, yet, her skill left little doubt how the Elvish people had survived throughout the centuries.

Grim grunted, sliding in to the background departing from Stitches’ side. “Warrior not an option?” Stitches inquired, his back meeting against Dalish’s.

“Not for Krem,” Skinner chuckled gleefully, running yet another unsuspecting Venatori through, smoke paddling at her sudden appearance.

“I’ve never met the boy,” an unfamiliar voice growled as the joining female warrior bashed her shield into an advancing opponent’s head, not shy to display her capabilities to the group before her. She cocked her head at Krem before turning her attention to another victim.

Dalish giggled, “Mage it is, bet she’s a blonde.” The blade of her “bow” sliding through the vocal cords of an approaching Venatori, who had found his way past her defenses. The hilt of Stitches’ sword ramming him off Dalish’s dagger.

“Bettin’ she has big tits,” Bull grunted, heaving his own axe over his shoulder as he prepared to s wing it wildly, a tactic the Chargers had grown accustomed to dodging. Have to admit, the fact none of the Vents were trembling in their armor was impressive, but not enough to save them from the might of the towering Qunari.

“Your left,” Krem shouted, slamming himself forward. The jagged edge of the blade lodged into a defending shield. The Venatori operative grinned at the potential of an upper hand, until Krem kicked him forward, clinging to the shaft of his axe. Shield still attached, Krem’s boot wedged against it, attempting to dislodge it from its containment. Advancing forces bore in on the Chargers, and their new ally, who let out a curse Krem recognized as a Nevarran phrase. What atrocities she offered in her familiar tongue; he didn’t dare question. Wrinkling his nose, and gritting his teeth, his axe refused to budge from its captivity, claimed by the shield. “Maker’s tits,” he hissed as Bull’s voice vibrated, placing him nearby.

“Anyone seen Rocky?” His voice was demanding more than an actual question, the weight of his words baring down on Krem’s shoulder as the severity sunk in.

“Shit,” Krem spat at the denial of each Charger, including a grunt from Grim. Tearing his head in every which way, there seemed to be no trace of the dwarf amongst the fray, a realization that sent tremors down his spine, well met by the deafening sound of an explosion near the cliffs.

“FENDHIS!!!” A male voice shouted in Elvish as the rocks cracked, trembling the shoreline. The elven form retreated into the safety of the mountain side, dancing across the rock’s surface as they cascaded down. Krem tore his gaze from the sight, shoving the nearest ally forward, clutching Cassandra’s head to the ground as the dust emerged from the rockslide. The evasion rattled his bones, adding to the wear and tear of his body. Without a doubt, he would be feeling this one in the morning.

“The Herald’s down!” Urgent, demanding, but most of all worried was the voice that carried with the sound of the rain.

_Shit_ , Krem cursed as the warrior, who was quick to join the Charger’s side tore from his grasp quick on her feet. Blade in hand, the glare she offered the final Venatori standing was frightful, the intelligent few withdrawing from her reach as she screamed out, “Inquisitor!” Charging forward, she tore her way through, met with a clash of steel as Krem found his own pace, blood staining his clothes as he scanned his surroundings. It was a bloody mess, a plan derailed, but a skirmish they were winning regardless. Dust tainted the air stirring from the collapse met with the thrash of the waves around them, Krem pursued the warrior from the Inquisition. Asshole or not, there would be no payday if the Herald had perished in the detonation. Worse, Thedas may very well depend on the bastard. A crushing blow to his chest as the realization hit him, _Brion may depend on the bastard_. The ease of the apostate may have been brought on by the word of the Herald, the thin veil protecting Brion from a life in chains. Clutching his axe tighter, accepting the existence of the lodged shield, Krem was ready for the confrontation, whispering a prayer of the Bastard of Andraste survived the fall. Over his shoulder, lost to the tainted air, he could hear the Chargers finishing the skirmish in a full force assault.

“Vashedan, ROCKY,” Iron Bull bellowed in a rare use of his native tongue, Qunlat. When was the last time he had used such language amongst the Chargers? Krem knitted his brow, doing his best to remain aware of the battle as his sight had forsaken him in the mess. The Inquisitor’s fall was near, but where in this dust and rubble was beyond him.

“Did the job, didn’t it?” Rocky objected.

Emerging from the filth that claimed the air, an eerie glow beckoned his attention. The hairs stood at the back of his neck at the resemblance to the rifts amongst the wreckage. The particles of iron burning his lungs, or was it the sense of dread that filled his gut as he slowly advanced, his knuckles white from gripping his battle axe with suspense. The wrenching of metal and the cry of a woman was carried away with the remainders of the smog. Buried amongst the rubble, on bent knees, a trembling body shook. The silhouette of a Venatori looming threateningly over the weary body, Krem whipped his axe at full force; the once lodged shield splintering on contact with the damn warrior before tumbling to the ground. That was when he noticed her. A tangle of honey rich blonde hair, and her right-hand clutching at her side as she let out a light cry. The haunting green shades emanating from between Brion’s fingers. Around her, the bodies of fallen enemies laid dead. He wasn’t sure if the thud on the ground was the result of Casandra, her warrior companion cutting down another opponent, or his stomach flung to the ground as reality tore into his flesh. Her arms tucked tightly to her side, scrape marks littered her once delicate skin, her sad eyes glancing up at him as she fought to remain conscious. Had Brion looked so frail upon their meeting? “Hello, Krem,” she whispered before her body ga ve out before him. Heavy arms enveloped her, an impulse Krem could not deny as he held her tight, preventing her from shattering her skull into the rocks. Brion? Inquisitor? Herald?

One and the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A subtle throw back to my first playthrough of Dragon Age Inquisition when my mage slipped right off the cliff.  
> Hope everyone is doing well!  
> xoxo,  
> Flower


	5. A Misguided Contract

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a weight to be had of titles, and more to be added when we've find ourselves a foreigner in another land. Disappointments to be had by all involved, the imporant question is, will Iron Bull get his trebuchet?

“She’s merely fainted,” the elf who addressed himself as Solas reassured the group, now a collaboration of the Chargers and Inquisition alike. “It seems a problematic side effect of the mark; she’ll awake shortly.” Yet, no matter how self-assured he was in his diagnosis, and the confident way in which he delivered it, Krem found himself unable to breathe. While the Chargers were often on the receiving end of nicks, bruises, and the occasional scarring, none had ever collapsed amongst the battlements, not even when The Iron Bull had lost his eye in a skirmish with Tevinter hunters. Krem pressed a hand to his forehead, sitting himself on a rock as he processed the depths of the situation at hand. _Fucking Andraste’s tits_ , he thought between squeezed eyelids. The girl who had consumed his thoughts, the Herald of Andraste. Fucking. Andraste. How many times had he thought of her? How often had he dreamed of threading his fingers through her hair? To have her whiskey eyes see him, only him? Overwhelmed with the realization of what he longed for would never come to pass, he did his best to focus on breathing, drinking in his surroundings. Around him, he could hear his companions discussing the conclusion of the conflict, picking at bodies and salvaging what resources were at hand. He could hear Skinner, the least wary of the task taking glee, recounting how one Venatori, three times her size fell quickly. Dalish sighed, shaking her head; he could feel her eyes on him from time to time. Bull held Rocky by the scruff of his medium armor. What threatening whispers, he could not hear, but was sure that despite his current rage, Bull cared for the wayward dwarf. Although the anger that coursed through the Inquisitor’s warrior, Cassandra, Krem suspected Bull enforced a punishment to avoid the Nevarran woman running Rocky through with her blade, which she held at the ready.

Rubbing his hand past his temple, Krem would accept the elf’s diagnosis as Brion awoke shortly after the Chargers made camp. Upon her rising, the Chief rallied the Chargers, welcoming them to open the barrels of ale as soon as they finished their work upon the remainders of the Venatori forces. She was wary, the tense of her shoulders as her hand found her ribs once again. “Need it looked at?” Stitches asked, but was quickly refused, offering him a small smile as she found her stride. With quick, decisive steps, she found her way to the Chief, who met her head on. Krem quickly busied himself with the task at hand, he could feel his brow furrow, still processing the new information, and remained focused as Skinner gleefully probed at a corpse.

“Pretty one,” Dalish whispered, her fingers delicately threading around a small dagger. Twisting carefully on the rooted plant on the shoreline, her light eyes found Krem’s. “You don’t seem pleased to see her… something the matter?”

“Noble girls,” Rocky scoffed.

Stitches, who offered Daish assistance at gathering the nearby herbs was quick to ridicule the dwarf. “I’d stay out of it, were I you.” Shaking his head, Stitches delicately folded the Spindleweed away. “Blowing up the damn Hearld of Andraste.”

Rocky’s mouth dropped, “It made an impression, didn’t it?”

Grim let out a grunt, turning out empty pockets of a Venatori archer. Skinner, too immersed in the pillaging had yet to overhear their conversation skipped forward a bit, nearing the edge of the waters as she surveyed the remains. Content with her work. Still gathering herbs, Dalish glanced from the Blood Lotus between her fingers, “Krem? Are you alright?” Her voice was hushed, unheard amongst the arguing of the hotheaded dwarf and weary war-hero who had found themselves in another back-and-forth banter.

“Yeah,” Krem smied softly avoiding her gaze as he shuffled through a spellbinder’s knapsack. The work concluded, the distinct sound of the Charges readying the barres drew his attention. _Maker_ , he needed a drink. He concluded as the casts broke open. Shaking his head at Dalish, who did her best to peer into his face. Her large eyes followed him closely. “Just a bit surprised, is all.”

Her brows knit, worry claiming her fair features as he turned away from her. “You didn’t know, did you?”

“Nothing to know, I imagine this is the last we’ll be seeing of the Herald- asses to kiss, demons to kill,” Krem laughed awkwardly. Maker, what he’d give to have the conversation over, but to his dismay, his words drew attention.

“The girl you’ve made eyes at is the bloody Herald? Aiming a bit high, aren’t you,” Skinner teased, her mood still carrying from the prior bloodshed. Her mug was filled to the brim as her black hair tossed in the wind, her armor still tinged with the blood she neglected to wash off. Not that Krem suspected she intended to anytime soon. Her morbid tendencies were known throughout the Chargers.

Stitches released an exhausted sigh, fatigued from the skirmish they’d endure on behalf of the Inquisition. The Blgith veteran was known to ache a bit after each battle, stretching his sore muscles, his eyes grazed Krem. Life’s a bit short.” His age weighing heavily on his parting words as he found himself next to Grim’s side, welcoming the quite of the solemn companion. Although Krem suspected he needed a moments rest from Rocky’s antics.

“Ass up, I’m telling you,” Rocky warned, nudging Krem’s ribs before following in pursuit of Stitches, who’s shoulders visibly dropped at his approach. Much like a child, Rocky nestled himself to the older human, joining in tales of former jobs, and drinking in Skinner’s rare jovial temperament. It was touching in a way, despite how the two bantered, they often found themselves in each other’s companies like old friends from Fereldan.

Dalish leaned forward, her blonde hair smelling of the healing herbs she had recently picked. The rich hint of dirt buried in her locks, a decisive opposite of their city-born companion. “Falon, banal’enfenim lath. Enansal, sulahn’nehn!” Warmth laced her words as she patted his shoulder, “You are worthy.” Her smile found the rocks on which the Inquisitor and the Chief discussed the matter of the Charger’s involvement in the Inquisition.

Negotiations with the Iron Bull were light hearted, a relief Brion welcomed in comparison to the abrasive agreements she had met so far, although she suspected Bull had little in common with the nobles of Orlais. Coming naturally to a close, The Iron Bul stood up, accepting her terms as she had his. Standing larger than most men, and broader than any she had known, his battle tact was worthy, and she reckoned Casandra would enjoy having another warrior at their side. At a glance, the Qunari had been forthcoming with his position, and what his information entailed, a valuable trait should it remain at the ready. Her fingers flexed at her side; bruising of her ribs still rigid as her eyes wandered. Nestled closely together, Krem spoke warmly with a blonde female elf. Intimate in their speech as they huddled together, Brion felt a surge in the pit of her stomach as the lovely elven woman touched his shoulder. Her faltering gaze did not escape the Qunari’s notice, to which he offered an amused grunt. “Frustrations everywhere, eh? Krem could use his bell rang from time to time.” The chuckle was hard to ignore; Brion tugged at her hip, her eyes wide at the commander. If she had to put a word to it, exposed. She felt exposed. “Krem for the trebuchet.”

“P-pardon?”

The offer had rattled the Inquisitor, only furthering Bull’s smile. “Yeah, you know. Machine good for tossing various things really far. I borrow it; you borrow Krem.”

Her cheeks reddened at the thought as she hastily avoided his gaze. Her nose wrinkled in annoyance. “Can’t say Cullen would approve of this agreement.”

“The trebuchet, or Krem?” Turning his attention to his ward, Iron Bull raised an arm, “CHARGERS, just got hired! Lieutenant, let’s move out!” There was something in that comment that weighed on Brion as she turned away from him. Ridiculous all around how rumors spread throughout Thedas.

Krem sputtered, his ale spilling from his lips, earning a collective grown from the group. Standing up quickly from his spot, he met his commander dead on. “Chief, we’ve just opened the cast up. With axes!”

“Find a way to close them You’re from Tevinter, try blood magic.” It was a joke, Brion assumed before worrying coursed through her veins. She could hear the Nevarran curse emerge from Cassandra. Varric’s visible disapproval at the mention of blood magic, memories of Kirkwall etched in his expression as he clutched Bianca. Solas, she suspected was unaffected either having accepted the Qunari’s unique sense of humor, or having delved into the eclectic knowledge of magic in the Fade. Yet, none of their disapprovals were necessary. Throughout her childhood in the Free Marches, nurtured on tales of the Chantry, and the words of the Maker, Brion knew. The Tevinter Imperium, the shadow that hung across the remainder of Thedas, despite having been the birthplace of the world weighed heavily on its fate. Drowning in memories of Andraste’s betrayal, built on the backs of slaves, the horrors of the old country was whispered in hushed horror within her family home, quick to drown any family lines associated with the land. The damning reputation would seep in to the lessons at the Circle of Ostwick, an unmistakable abomination that warned of devastation brought on by blood mages. The mere mention forcing a tremor down Brion’s neck as her heart sank.

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra hissed. She was right to, Brion concluded. All religious upbringing aside, welcoming a Tevinter amongst the ranks of the Inquisition would not only lack approval from the advisors, the lecture Josephine would deliver would be harrowing. Much like the Lady Esme Trevelyan, Brion’s mother who had earned her revered rights of their family, Josephine embodied a political force, one that was quick to scold, and less to nurture. She recalled Josephine’s immediate disapproval of her status as a mage- not that Brion could blame Josie. With the tales of blood magic on the rise, and the manner in which Brion found herself amongst the Inquisition, her suspicions were necessary as her mother’s hasty disassociation. Yet, the emotional sting still weighed on her as her eyes found Krem, who let out a light hearted chuckle, comfortable in his status as a lieutenant amongst the Chargers. The playful atmosphere reminded Brion, Krem was no enchanter, and likely incapable of lighting a flame to a candle. Though his matter of birth would nag at Josephine’s mind, there was comfort in his voice. The camaraderie shared between the Bull’s Chargers was gratifying, a delicate kindle in which Brion desperately reached out, but withdrew from fear of being burned from the blinding light. Yes, Lady Montilyet’s ruffles would be in a nit upon word of the Tevinter in her ranks, but whether it was the reassurance of her own gradual acceptance of the Lady Trevelyan, or perhaps Brion’s longing to warm herself by Cremicius Aclassi’s light, the Inquisitor accepted the inevitable scolding, and promise of brighter days with a smile.


	6. Sorted Backgrounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were many things Brion Trevelyan had prepared herself for: the severity of Cassandra's glare, Josephine's well groomed manners, and even Cullen's over-drilling of the Inquisition soldiers, but the eyes of Nightingale? Nothing could ever prepare one for the depths of her knowledge, and her abundant sources.

Lady Montilyet’s lectures cut deep, and throughout it, Brion had to wonder if there was a family link between the Montilyets and the Trevelyans. The hiss of her voice as she delivered has realities before dropping the weight of hearsay amongst the common folk. The depth of her severity reached as her eyebrows met in a scowl, shaking her head as she passed to and fro, overwhelmed with their new arrivals, the Iron Bull’s Chargers. No sooner than the mercenaries had appeared within arm’s reach of the Inquisition, the ambassador clarified her intentions to see her immediately; the initial demand had been postponed as Josie navigated a tense political debate with the land owner of Haven. Yet, between voyages to the Hinterland and surrounding areas, the inevitable could only be dodged for so long. As soon as she stepped through Haven’s gates, Brion had been summoned to Josephine’s courtiers within the Chantry walls. Brion tucked her hands thoughtfully in front of her, doing her best to recall the etiquette lessons her mother had instilled in her as the Lady Josephine let out a dignified scoff. Embellished in fineries, and quality silk, the ambassador had endured the quant accommodations of Haven as long as she could, and Brion suspected Josie was awaiting more furniture suited to her tastes. In truth, she had wondered how long the Lady Montilyet had endured the humble surroundings before ensnaring a preferable merchant, one with ties to the finest woodcrafter and upholster Orlais could provide. As the deep mocha of the Antivan’s skin glazed in the dim candlelight, Brion considered that beneath the thick of her lectures and manners, a softer woman lurked beneath the heavy layers obscured by duties and expectations. Whether her own or the or the Montilyet family she hailed from, Brion had yet to conclude. Not that the weight of a family name was a foreign concept to her. “The Inquisition is young, we must be considerate of our allies, and how it looks to outsiders,” Josephine reprimanded, disappointment dripping on the tip of her tongue. Each word was poised, ready to bite should the Inquisitor argue. After years of surviving her own upbringing, Brion was well versed, realizing an argument with the ambassador would be lethal, leaving the Trevelyan battered and scarred. Yes, there was little doubt that the Inquisition entrusted the treacherous tasks of nobility and formalities to Josephine Montiylet, a woman who tamed the Orleason courts. “Orlais will not take kindly to foreign entities at the cusp of the empire,” Her sharp eyes finding Brion’s, demanding her undivided attention as she enunciated the following words, “All eyes are on you, Lady Inquisitor. You would do well to remember such.”

“Josephine,” Brion sucked in a deep breath, steeling herself to the wrath her words may incur. “I understand your unease with the nationality and classes, but the Chargers have given no reason for us to turn them away. I’ve a fondness for the group; their jovial natures have breathed new life in Haven. I dare say I caught Adan smiling at the extra hand Stitches, their healer provides.”

“Stitches,” Lady Montiylet scoffed. “Pray tell, how might I explain to the Marquis DuRellion, his claimed land reeks of Phoenix’s stewed liver because a man who only answers to the sobriquet, “Stitches” favors pungent concoctions to proven poultices.”

The irritability was clear on the ambassador’s tongue, justifiable as she tended to the blossoming reputation of the Inquisition. Yet, she was bristled, speaking out of turn as she fumed. It was not a common sight, but one born out of genuine concern in only a way that a friend could cherish. Yet, regardless of what method Josephine may select to question the Charger’s reputation, Brion could not ignore the suggestiveness of her own scowl growing. Her eyebrows furrowed as she recalled the willingness of the healer, Stitches to provide aide at her own injuries, unable to turn a blind eye to those in need. The affections of the Qunari contained for the men under his charge, the Iron Bull nurtured the oddities of the group, and Krem… Golden ebbs delicately painted with faints of green, eyes that enthralled the changes of the seasons Brion longed for back home as the green eyes welcomed Autumn with vivid gold hues. The way his eyes creased as his warm chuckle broke the silence, dawning the symphonies of butterflies who beat wildly against her ribcage. The warm caramel touches of his skin weathered by the churn of battle, and the tender nature of his mannerisms. Brion released a short breath, attempting to cool herself, whether from her wondering thoughts of the Chargers, namely Krem, or perhaps her growing frustrations with the extensive recitation Josie offered. Either way, she could no longer bear the circumstances. “Might I suggest reminding the Marquis that his people remain intact, and well, despite the times.” She was quick to dismiss herself from Josephine’s ire, quickly closing the heavy door behind her. In the quiet of the Chantry, Brion rested her back against the threshold. The sigh nearly escaping her lips as her hands found her face, feeling the warmth of a blush upon her high cheeks as she slowed her breathing.

“Josie has always loved her lectures, but her intentions are pure,” the curl of an accent drew her attention. Wrapped in enigmas, the Lady Leliana offered her a small smile. Traces of the bard rumored to travel with the Hero of Fereldon was evident in the moment, her rare soft features as she acknowledged Brion. Her cowl tucked carefully over her head, strands of red hair peeking past, a trait Iron Bull relished upon their meeting. Although just as quick as his provocative comments, his withdraw from pursuit defined hasty retreat. A shudder of his massive shoulders under her cold gaze, he had concluded that he would not be touching, and had the sense to distance himself from the spymaster. Her mystifying eyes found Brion, “You must know there is some merit to Josie’s disquisition. The Iron Bull has been forthcoming with his position, but we cannot say the same of his lieutenant.”

The accusation in her words was sharp, a warning laced in a ready blade. Unable to make eye contact with her, she recoiled under her gaze. Her words as capable as her aim, Leliana had met her mark. While the Inquisitor had grown attached to the Tevinter man, the gravity of his situation weighed on her position. She had not only welcomed the foreigner with welcome arms, a decision she refused to regret, but hadn’t considered the circumstances surrounding his enrollment into the mercenary group. He was trained, she knew this from their time on the Storm Coast, and from Cullen’s remarks overseeing the Charger’s drills merely confirmed he had been Tevinter trained. The oddity of his attachment to a Qunari was evident amongst the ranks, the growing resentment between the two homelands were indisputable. In Leliana’s weighted accusation, there was a reminder that she would sacrifice everything to see the Inquisition flourish, a tribute to the late Divine. However, in all the Lady Trevelyan’s time spent with the soldier, she had never once felt uncomfortable… a trait gravely missing throughout Haven’s environment. Much like Scout Harding, he possessed an unrelenting sincerity Brion relished. “What is it you are suggesting?”

“That we find out, clearly,” Leliana stated, her eyes searching the Herald, who did her best to avoid being ensnared in her clutches. Beautiful and fierce, rumors of the Nightingale’s tactic were on the rise, and Brion intended to avoid recompense. “The boy’s origins leave a lot of unopened questions. If he has ties to questionable acquaintances, it is best to know prior to waking to a blade at your throat.”

“Leliana, you’ve never asked my counsel on such matters… why now?”

The smile was small, soft. Knowing. In it, Brion traced a past she might not expect of the cold exterior she had come to know. A history of heartbreak on her features, an understanding of betrayed affections stunned Brion, the depths of the spymaster threatening to drown her in the unknown. “You’ve a fondness for the boy.” Her words unexpectedly gentle as she delivered the final blow, “What information there is on Cremisius Aclassi, my sources will find it. You must be prepared for what they discover.” With that, she turned from the Inquisitor, striding from the Chantry. The old hinges of the door echoed through the silent numbness that encompassed Brion.

Eyes wide, she fought back a tremor that threatened the path of her spine. The gravity of her surroundings grew menacing. The capability of the Nightingale’s spies was frightening, their knowledge and span spreading further than she could possibly imagine. The once welcoming abode of the Chantry’s religious symbols felt like eyes borrowing their way into her core. Aware, and always watching, Andraste knew of her own assorted past, in which she had to question what the spymaster knew of her own origins amongst the Mage Rebellion. The screams of that day echoed through her heart, the terror that ensnared her body. The rage that coursed through her skin a blood dripped down the cobblestone. Maker, what have I done, she felt shattered, nauseous at the horrifying memories… Bearing the pressure of the religious rights, or her memories, she knew not which encased her breath, strangling the last of it from her body before she bolted from the Chantry.

The wind brushed at her cheeks as her swift escape from Haven found her way pass the threshold. In running from the village’s inner circle, she could feel the eyes of the ever-present spymaster watching her escape as she followed the quickest route from her prying eyes, although Brion Trevelyan suspected her vigilance encompassed the surrounding regions if not further. Iron Bull was quick to brush off the oddity of the Inquisitor sprinting past; his lieutenant in question missing from his side. Maker, how long had it been since they had spoken? Her staff beat against her back, easily bruising the flesh under her coat as she forced her way pass the tents that grew in numbers to the Inquisition’s army. Krem had grown distant since their encounter on the Storm Coast. While he had remained willing to speak to her on occasions, his warmth was absent, withdrawn to short phrases. Stumbling past stones, the sound of their parrying scattered amongst the wind as the cold cusp of winter kissed her face. Polite in nature, her gaze hadn’t met her own since the Charger’s arrival, and she questioned if she should refer to him as “Krem” at all anymore. Past Cassandra, who had adjusted Irail’s faulty fighting stance, her accent thick as she did her best to encourage the boy’s lessons. What surprised her most of all, Krem’s rejection left her feeling shattered. Perhaps, she deserved it, having omitted her position at their introduction, causing a clear fracture between the two. Running without a second thought, she stumbled across the frozen pond. Savoring the normalcy of his address, it had never occurred to her that the truth would stunt their developing relationship. Let alone how it anguished her soul. Gravity pulled at her skin as adrenaline crashed against her ribs, the speed in which she approached the surface swept her feet from her, landing her face first as she slid across its surface, driving herself into a snow bank at the water’s edge.

Thankful for the cushion the snow provided, she poked her head from the snow mound. Her eyes found the looming structure of Haven, adjacent from where she had landed. She recalled how she had found herself amongst the Inquisition bound at the hands. She had wreathed in pain, faintly aware of Cassandra’s interrogation, and the crumbling of the sky above. The encounter of the Conclave remained a personal enigma Brion had yet to face, a truth that she alone carried within her, within the mark that tore at the flesh of her left hand. At the time, the Lady Trevelyan questioned little of her circumstances, guided by her faith. Now, the looming structures before her left her unsettled. Shaken to her core as the weight of the world fell to her shoulders. The snow on her shoulders felt more comforting than the expectations of the residents of Haven, or the world for that matter. How long she sat there, she didn’t know, and in truth, she considered remaining in the snow drifts. Invisible to the world, forgotten amongst the ruins of Thedas. To erase all existence of her essence, perhaps she could find a worthy craft. She had always wanted to try sewing, a concept her mother had found novel at the time. A desire that would be lost amongst the lessons her family name implemented: archery, dancing, various musical instruments, as well as the expected education of a noble woman. Assuming she could find a master or mistress in the craft, it would be a skill Brion could survive off. She could feel the bittersweet smile on her face, her eyebrows dipped as the thoughts wandered through her heart.

Pulling herself from the snow, she shivered against the breeze. The Lady Trevelyan had never endured such a winter amongst the Free Marches, not in her youth, and certainly not within the walls of the Circle. In truth, she was unsure of what to make of it. The substance wasn’t quite what she remembered on her brief visits home, and the numbness on the tips of her fingers escaped description within the books she had read. Nestling herself carefully in the snow, the glacial in her fingers did not subside as she dug through her knapsack, nestled at her hip. The casting book on her other ignored for the time being as she pulled forward a small cloth. The needle still snuggly caught against the threading, the fabric had certainly experienced better days. Smiling awkwardly, her fingers struggled against the grain, the needle prickling the tips of her fingers. Wincing as a small amount of blood stained the fabric, she bit her lip, determined to trace the embroidery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite how this chapter presents it, I've actually a fondness for Josephine. There's something impressive about this character, and her communication skills. She seems like a caring individual, but that being said, I imagine such her position, as well as any interactions with her could be very emotionally draining. ^-^'  
> To be frankly honest, Chapter Titles are not my strength, and I'm sorry.  
> I hope everyone is staying safe and well!


	7. The Longing of Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Chargers have settled into life in Haven, Krem has distanced himself from the person of his affections, driven apart by title. No matter how much distance Krem tries to place between the Inquisitor and himself, there is little he can do to seperate himself from the longing within his heart, especially when Dalish orchestrates any given oppertunity for the two.

The damn snow reminded Krem of his first encounter with the Inquisitor; the thought had never occurred to him the same bastard that openly tossed him to the snow was in fact a woman of faith, guided by Andraste’s light. Even more so, the realization that this same noble woman of the House of Trevelyan would warm his breast so, leaving him gasping for air. Delusional, he concluded. The warm affections that lit his hopes were quickly extinguished when her limp body clattered against his armor likely leaving various bruises throughout her delicate skin. Nope, mustn’t think of that, less of all now. Maker, he longed to smack Rocky hard enough to rattle the dwarf’s teeth, but in the depth of his heart, he knew the dwarf was not to blame. The explosion? Completely his fault. The true identity of the Inquisitor, whom he had wished to play suitor? Less so, reaching the epiphany in an emotionally cushioned manner, less near demise of the woman of his affections… No, not affections, such notions of infatuation would have to be suppressed, allowing time to wither away at the possibilities. Acquaintances, and nothing more. His boots scattered the snow as he treaded down the worn path once more. His time away from Haven had not been without its intended purpose. Slung across his back, he carried the benefits of their hunt, a bountiful ram. Amongst the Chargers, the had managed a ram, and an unexpected Druffalo. The ram carried on his back while Grim Rocky, and Stitches divided the weight amongst each other, shouldering the burden on a stretcher amongst the three of them. Skinner let out an annoyed grunt, creeping across the snow, her movements delayed. Krem lead the group forward, Haven in sight. Guided by the path to the hold, Krem felt reassured that starvation would not meet the people of Haven for some time.

Nearing the edge of the frozen pond, Dalish turned to him, her “bow” strapped to her back. Admittedly, the hidden strength of the elves within the Chargers always caught him by surprise, but even more so was the glee buried within her smile. “Krempuff,” she hummed, a giggle hidden within the tone. His eyes followed hers as they wondered across the snowbanks.

Curled at the foot of a bank, far from where one might expect her, Brion sat amongst the river’s edge. Her brow clearly furrowed as she fumbled with a piece of cloth. Whispering the occasional curse, she tossed the fabric away from her, clearly displeased by what, Krem could not deduce. It was rare to see frustration marking her delicate features, and concern ate at his stomach. Stuffing it down, he turned away offering nothing more than a shake of his head. The matters of the higher ups were not his concern, he told himself as he stepped forward. He was here for coin, and nothing more. “Falon,” Dalish raised her voice, the disappointment ringing in his ears.

“Wising up, eh,” Rocky taunted through grunts as his thick hands grasped at the Druffalo’s stint. Exhaustion was wearing on him, rightfully so as they had allowed for little breaks since they had made their way home. “Noble girls aren’t worth the coin they carry.”

That, Krem had to agree, _she would be worth more_.

“Your bias is showing,” Stitches stated, shooting Rocky a knowing glance.

“Oi, I ain’t to blame for this mess,” Rocky retorted. Nodding his head, a devilish grin formed on his rigid face. “How about that Flissa. Pretty lass, and comes with an ale perk, whatcha say Krem?”

Grim offered a positive grunt while Skinner scoffed. “Do your own dirty work,” Skinner hissed, tending to Dalish’s side as she was so often known to do. “Besides, what makes you think she’d like Krem? Spends enough time with that bumbling fool.” Right, Skinner and the Inquisition’s rogue, Sera had not hit it off, and despite Dalish’s best efforts to avoid a fight, neither party was willing to comply. Krem’s shoulder dropped as he recanted the Chief’s laugh amongst the conflict the two had started in the Singing Maiden.

“Isn’t there something better to talk about,” Krem stated, his eyebrows in a nit as he stepped forward.

Yet, there was no dodging Dalish’s pursuit. Clinging to her notion as she surged forward, cutting him off. Placing delicate fingers on her hips, her glare was sharp, scolding even. “Harel, Krem. You cannot leave our employer in the snow,” she instructed. The depth of her accent adding to her order. He had little doubts he could persuade the elf, and to his great dismay, knew the pestering would be unrelenting evident by the collective nod of the group. While he felt assured the Inquisitor was a grown woman capable of deciding whether she froze her ass off or not, there had been murmurs amongst the Inquisition, and he doubted abandoning her to such a fate would improve their reputation with the varying ranks.

A collective sigh, and a furrow of his brow, concern marked Krem’s features as the realization registered. Heaving the mountain ram from his back and loading it upon the stint. Admittedly, the grunt of a complaint from Rocky set him at ease, at least he wasn’t the only person uneasy with the current arrangement. It was with an encouraging grunt from Grim that pushed him forward as the Chargers continued on without him. “Like a nug to the races, poor bastard,” Rocky sighed. For a moment, Krem stood paralyzed, what was he to say? Having successfully placed distant between the two, this impending interaction would be uncomfortable. Possibly forced. Yet, here he stood, freezing his ass off. His eyes finding the Chargers who carried the loads inward to Haven, Dalish curiously glancing over his shoulder and waving his hand in an ushering motion. _Easy enough for her to say_ , he thought to himself. This interaction was opportunistic on her behalf, her few attempts in the prior week having failed. Maker they had been ridiculous at that; one attempt brought on by a fade-touched magical weed containing the power to subconsciously draw mages to the source. In an exercise orchestrated by the Chief, Skinner had stuffed the damn thing in his trousers. Neither had considered other mages roamed throughout the Village. He couldn’t figure out who was more mortified at the intrusive encounter- Minaeve or himself. Maker, what had placed these intentions in Dalish’s head, he would never know.

As he drew himself forward, he could make out the frustration upon the Inquisitor’s face. Like a child learning a new task, her lip trembled. Her nose wrinkled, releasing a small curse before throwing the fabric in his general direction. “Maker’s breath,” her voice a high shrill as she crossed her arms. Raising an eyebrow, his eyes found the guilty cloth nestled amongst the snow. Curiosity bore at him as he plucked it from the wretched cold. Delicate and vivid, the carefully crafted clothe embroidered the outline of a child. A cloth doll that had succumbed to age, Krem suspected. Simplistic in nature, Krem was reminded of a time when he sat at his father’s side, curled against the fire of the hearth. Another night his father had brought work into their humble home. His fingers much smaller than they were now, carefully working at a skirt by his father’s feet; the final product in time being an elaborate dress fit for a Magister’s bride. In a way on his father was capable, the dress was elegant, and the envy of every noble woman in Tevinter. As he looked down at Lady Trevelyan’s tossed to the side doll, he recounted how often he aided his father in his work, longing to be by his side, and how similar the Herald’s was from his own as a child. Andraste’s breath, he hated the damn thing, and dreaded how eagerly his mother offered the toy. Shaking the memory from his head, his eyes traced the outlines of the doll, intended stitch work practice. He let out a small chuckle at the tattered thing. No wonder she had tossed it to the side in frustration. His fingers tugging at the thread, he concluded, _a child could do better than this_.

“Uh, Your worship?”

She lurched backward, her hands diving into the snow to support her weight from behind her. Her eyes wide as she stared up at him, oblivious to his arrival. Horrified at the realization he had witnessed her display, the blush on her cheek was evident as she turned her head away. “Ah, yes, hello.” She stumbled, doing her best to regain herself amongst the snow. A shiver ran down her spine, a mere glance falling on the doll in his hand. Her shoulders dropped, practically anchored to the ground as her eyebrows wiggled. “I- well, my caretaker as a child gave it to me.”

“Did you hate her?” his laugh was light hearted as she leaned on his words.

“I, no of course not. Heloise was a lovely woman,” Her cheeks a lovely shade of pink, he felt himself smile. There was something enchanting about this newly discovered side of the Inquisitor, humbly and shy under his gaze. Twirling her fingers in the snow, her long lashes coyly glancing up at him. “I wished to learn, sewing… My moth—Lady Trevelyan disapproved. The lute was more suitable to finding a husband.” She was spiraling, and in an unusual display of embarrassment, she was open. Unguarded as she readily shared details of her childhood. An idea that left Krem warm, and fuzzy. He listened, blissfully aware of the grin spread across his face as he found himself setting at her side. Still holding the doll, much more carefully than he had prior, her warm eyes found him. Her full lips spreading into a smile, “I’ve missed this.”

“What’s that, Your worship?”

With large eyes searching his, he felt hot under the collar. Pulling at his armor, the sudden weight of his clothing bearing down at him. There was a change in the air between the two of them, undeniable to the lieutenant. Bashful as she tucked her chin to her chest, her movements were soft, alluring in ways he could not describe. “Speaking with you,” she admitted; his heart plummeted as his fingers gripped the little cloth doll tightly. The distance he had forged between the two had been nagging at her peace. An unintended harm that marked her features, a factor he hadn’t considered when implementing the space. Biting his lip, he breathed in the cold air, his eyes finding the breach above. His thoughts swimming as he fought the urge to stay, the fact she missed his company. Friends? Would being friends satisfy the both of them? She said she longed for his company, something he hadn’t dreamed of her whispering between shy glances, and how it caught his breath. Suppressing the pounding of his heart, he accepted. Perhaps, in close distances, friendship would satisfy his desires. Contenting his heart with her mere presence, enough. Was it enough? His hazel finding hers, drawing him in. Desperately searching his own, pleading him to stay, he resolved the pounding of his heart. It would have to be enough.

“I can teach you,” he stated between heart beats.

Her eyes widened, the smile threatening to erase all marks of burden from her status. His fingers worked quickly, unraveling the stitch work she had muddled, the memory of his father having undone so many of his first attempts. At the time, Krem had wondered how his father ever had the patience, but as Brion nestled herself closely, the radiance of her heat warming his body through cold armor. The understanding was unspoken, and understood as a grin claimed his face, he explained the manner in which she needed to equip her needle. The practice of his own hands providing an example that would fall on deaf ears as she prodded herself in the finger once more. Yes, the smile he offered her was awkward, and warm as he resisted the urge to chuckle at her nativity. Here sat the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste who bore the world on her shoulders fumbling over a cloth doll as a child would. Blissfully unaware of how his heart begged to reach out, to curl his fingers in her soft locks, and draw her nearby. It was on the third prick, she let out a small yelp, lapping at the blood on her pointer finger. Her eyes requesting his assistance, but her pride containing her words in her throat as she let out a small thrum of disappointment of her short coming. His memories searching through his earliest encounters of sewing, distinguishing the differences between his practice doll and her own. Styling differences between the Free Marches and Tevinter, he concluded, yet so similar it stoked a fear of uncertainty in his core. Nagging at his thoughts, reminding him of the ever differences of their upbringing, biting his lips as he fought back the bile in his throat. “Krem?” Her voice was soft, cautious as she treaded across his unstable features.

Shaking his head, he forced a smile, one he suspected that wasn’t capable of convincing her. Yet, she was unwilling to press the issue further, whether out of respect or fear herself, he didn’t question. A faint memory of curling in his father’s lap, as his calloused fingers guided his own cherub hands over stitch work; the elder Aclassi offered words of affirmation, warm. Comforting in a way a father should. Krem smiled, patting the space before him, this was after all, the best way to teach beginners—although more often than not children. She complied, carefully nestling herself before him as his hands found her own. He fought off the nervousness and trembling of his heart, innocent in all intentions as she followed his movements. Carefully weaving the thread through the dress of the doll, her hair smelt of vanilla and hints of cinnamon as he leaned forward, guiding her hands. Honey rich, and the sweet aroma, she jerked against him. For a moment, he worried she hated noted the pounding of his heart with their close proximities until her glowing smile found his own. Proudly displaying their handwork, she was positively beaming. And despite the way his heart called out to her, the smile he gave her accepted the ache of his bones. Yes, so long as he bore witness to such moments, the heartbreak would be worth the pain. As long as she smiled at him so, friends would be enough… right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This past week I have found myself sick, and grateful it's something easily treatable. However, my extra time at home as reminded me... I do not like sewing. I mean, I do, but, a small plushie results in seven of my fingers covered in bandaids. So perhaps sewing doesn't like me.  
> I hope everyone is doing well, and I hope this extra time at home has given you a fun project!   
> Until next time,  
> Flower


	8. The Obligation of Pawns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Delicately carved from Dawnstone and Onyx, the tokens of the war room are as necessary as they are beautiful. Hand crafted, their placement is prevalent, and mark the heavy duties of each piece. Planned and calculated, the Herald of Andraste alone bares the decision of whom to guide Andraste's will to the Breach, the mages or the templars. Both having fallen from grace, it is a double-edge decision, just as Lelianna's inquiry into one Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi.

The age wore at the edges of the Thedas map, the staining of the years marring the edges. Guided by the candlelight, the yellowing of the parchment was telling, even foreboding at the conscription of the Inquisition anchored the depiction of the world. Anxiety filled her pores as her fingers lightly traced the delicate calligraphy of the lands before her. Brion trembled at the color touch of the sheepskin, biting her lower lip as her eyes danced between locations. The tokens placed by her commander were leaden, marking the whereabouts of scouts, soldiers, the holds the Inquisition had claimed, and the territories they had yet to wander. Each emblem methodically placed, a pass time she suspected eased Commander Cullen’s apprehension as he had been found a time or two looming over the board. At her inscription into the Inquisition, she had never questioned his dedication, but now, understood the weight of each emblem as she toyed with one in her palm, considering the options before her. Her eyes curiously glancing at the chest at the corners of the long table, her eyes landing at the foothold in the Hinterlands, Redcliff. The mages. Calling upon her fellow spell weavers would provide scholars, dedicated to their tome, each providing a potential key to restoring order to the world. The closing of the Breach would offer aide to their cause, ensuring the common folk they are more than monstrosities infesting Thedas. Yet, her eyebrows furrowed, her hand wavered. The ever-present reminder of the scars mutilating her back weighed on her; one could not deny the presence of blood magic amid their ranks, and what unspoken horrors that arise from such desperation. She trembled at the weight, glancing across the map, her eyes landing once more on the fortress of Therinfal Redoubt. The whispers of the screams that tormented her dreams. She had known their “righteous” rage, endured their pillaging that gave rise to maleficarum. Although the terror of the memories plagued her, the truth remained… these vary warriors had once been the beacon of hope, proof of Andraste’s love and protection. The loss of their titles had scarred the people throughout Thedas, a tragic loss for the faithful. The downfall of the Templars leading the devoted to the pits of despair. _What have they after hope has forsaken them?_ Eyes squeezed shut, Brion trembled as she pressed one hand against the table, leaning her weight on it as she squeezed her pawn in her other. Gritting her teeth, she dared not spare the map another glimpse, _what am I to do?_

Clutching it against the grain, she reared her arm back, turning as she threw the piece with all her might. Carrying her fears, her indecisiveness through the air as the door of the room swept open. Eyes sharp, and instincts guided by her movement, Cassandra’s agile hand caught the emblem midair, unblinking as her fierce eyes appraised the Inquisitor before her. There was something kind hidden beneath the deep layers of brown, the set of the gold glimpsing at the surface. The scars of her face catching in the candlelight, how she had earned them, Brion dared not ask. Though she had heard whispers of a love affair, she suspected held as much merit as her supposed attraction to the Commander of the Inquisition forces. Raising a brow at the piece in her hand, her knowing gaze found the Herald. “Lelianna has some information for you.” Turning her back to Brion, she offered one glance over her shoulder. “It is common practice amongst the Circle of Magi to provide their apprentices with moments of respite. Something to consider.”

“How might you know this?”

For a moment, Brion questioned if she had pressed to far, daring curiosities left unaddressed as she noticed the shadow that encompassed the seeker’s features. Heavy as she offered a small smile, the past shrouded secrets of affections lost to time. “A dear friend of mine once told me,” she confessed, her eyes finding the steps before her. “He enjoyed the clarity a bit of fresh air would provide.” With that, she departed from Brion, her accent tracing her thoughts, her cheeks warm from the sudden sincerity the Seeker offered. The significance of the relationship Cassandra had once shared with a mage, and how it had concluded nagged at her thoughts as she followed suit. The pain of loss once again tucked away, a secret the Inquisitor and her companion shared.

The silence was deadening as she turned from the Inquisitor, the shrill of the aged wood the only noise to dull the quiet. How Brion had grown to loath the hushed whispers of her demons. The carved memories upon her back as she found her eyes staring once more at the map before her. Krem, she thought with a small sigh. Much like the Seeker, the Herald of Andraste found herself drowning in memories. It was the sharp pressure that drew tears, squeezing them as tightly as she could to deny their existence. Lelianna had found something. In the depths of her heart, Brion had known it was only a matter of time before the Nightingale’s spies would report. What rumors they may carry about the very Lieutenant she had investigated. It was inevitable from a nobleman with an esteemed pedigree to the lowest fiends that have found themselves on the underbelly of society, everyone carried a past even herself. Though there would be no information to report had his past reflected mere travels. Such news would consume too much time for the polished veteran, Leliana would have dismissed the details for pressing matters, such as the very tokens that stood before Brion, taunting her. There was a pit, a rumble in her gut as though the Lady Trevelyan had found herself on a wayward boat in the Storm Coast. Desolate, and abandoned, tough she was aware all walks of backgrounds had found themselves amongst the Inquisition, yet the idea… biting her lip, she slammed her clenched is into the table. Pieces scattered, the pitched thuds as two pieces scattered to the floor. Hanging her head, and doing her best to remind herself to breath despite the hitch in her chest, she leaned forward.

The floors were dirty, overlooked by the various aides the Inquisition had acquired, most far too wary of the inner workings of the war room. Dust tumbled across the stone floors; the carpet fringed with the mar of age. Unraveling at the seams, her long fingers found a piece at the foot of the table. Delicately wrapping it, she began to wonder if Commander Cullen would forgive her for the disarray… She suspected that through his tedious habits, it was only a matter of time before he’d noticed the mangled chaos, she had assured on his various strategies. While his lectures lacked the extensiveness provided by the Lady Montilyet, despite his shy exterior, his temper knew its dedications. Tedious in manner, the former templar was protective especially upon such grave matters. Tired, she felt worn at the edges as she held a piece that resembled a delicately carved queen piece. Wrinkling her brow, she stared at it, partly questioning if the commander a fondness for chess, the remainder falling heavy on her shoulders. Customary to her teachings, the queen provided with the capabilities of various pieces. Under her crown, she represented the possibilities, and to some, beyond valuable. Carved from what Brion suspected must be Dawnstone, she was delicate in her nobility, and for a moment, the Lady Trevelyan understood her responsibilities and the loss should she fall. Reaching further under the table, a knight appeared amongst the clumps of runaway dust bunnies, scattering as the nugs often had upon her arrival. Her lip trembled at its deep color, the impeccable craftsmanship. Fighting the tremble within her fingers, she carefully placed the piece that a bore the work of body guards and mercenaries alike. Sure, as the temper of a wyvern gliding through the air, she fought the urge to throw the queen who stood prideful above the lower stations. Wrinkled nose and all, the knight within the distance, demanding protection above all. Such was the undertaking of all pieces, a heavy burden to bear. Without him, the lands would be lost, and the game forfeit… For a moment, she considered the significance of the King pieces. To some such as the Lady Montiylet, this vary piece laid the symbolism of the Empress Selene, and perhaps the same to the Seeker Cassandra, assuming it were not in fact the Lady Divine. For whom it stood to Cullen, she wondered if it perhaps symbolized faith, his prior vows weighing upon his shoulders. As the Herald of Andraste, she knew all too well who the King ought to symbolize… yet such things required necessary sacrifice. _Hope_ , she thought bitterly before laying the final piece at his side, unable to attract Cullen’s ire should she have thrown it. Turning on her heel, the Lady Nightingale was known for her sharp mannerisms, and like Josephine, required immediate attention. Ready or not, Brion opened the same door that screamed in anguish at her departure, sparing one last glance at the King piece, it’s hues vivid at the chance of light immolated from her departure. _To whom did Krem consider in such esteem?_

A summon from Lelianna barred the same despair a lecture orchestrated by the Lady Montiylet. Fingers fidgeting carefully at the cloak on her back, the wind was brisk on Brion’s cheeks. Wisps of blonde hair danced amongst the snowflakes as the bustle of scouts drew her attention. Each left messages. Carefully rolled up for discretion. As they parted from the spymaster’s tent, they offered brief bows towards the Herald of Andraste, skillfully disappearing amongst the natives of Haven. It was a common practice, Brion had noticed for them to acknowledge her, and as time wore on, she would grow accustomed to this gesture… it was not so, each time bringing an unintended to touch of unease on her nerves. The world depended on her decisions. Standing awkwardly outside Lelianna’s lair. Her fingers trembled against the cold, no, Brion suspected it was the ominous glow of the breach above the tent, and the shadows that lurked within. While their interactions had always been cordial, beneath the weighted layers of the Nightingale, Brion felt anxious. Suspicions crept where the spymaster walked, the telling of hidden practices behind closed doors; her dedication to Justinia’s cause left little doubt as to how far she would tread to ensure the success of the inquisition. A reality that rattled against Brion’s ribs as though she had wandered far too close to a Varghests layer. She dared not press further, half expecting to be dragged in against her wills as the legends often foretold.

Against the wind, she could hear murmurs of what transactions she could not say. Between the sheets, Brion fought the curiosity to peer closer, reminded of the ever threat the spymaster posed. Secrets, she was wealthy in them, and in spirit, Lelianna was ruthless. Quick to glimpses, she could see the plain linens of an employed spy. One she had come to know as a favorite of Leliana. An elven male encompassed in wrappings; his scar tucked against his mouth as he spoke. The markings of his skin revealed Dalish origins, and how he had found himself amongst the Inquisition, Brion could only guess. A common theme amongst the ranks. Direct as he delivered his findings to his employer, it was an admirable trait she could admit although an oddity. His blue eyes found Brion’s, his upturned nose revealing his annoyance at her ease dropping. Unable to reject the shudder that found its way down her spine, she noted the glacial temp of his eyes as cold as the snow beneath her feet. Frozen. Sharp. HE had earned his place as a favored of the Lady Lelianna in ways Brion suspected were left unspoken. A small smile pressed to Lelianna’s lips unwilling to turn her a way. Leaving little doubt, she had known of the Inquisitor’s presence at her arrival.

“I shall depart for the Hissing Wastes,” he murmured.

In passing, she noted the stubble that graced his face, and the unkempt manner of his hair. His abrupt departure offering no acknowledgement to the Lady Herald- he had spent time apart from the Inquisition. Without companions, she suspected. Regardless, she found herself smiling at the crude manner in which he carried himself. He had no care for her title, as she had for his. “Do not keep me waiting,” Leliana said firmly. Elegant in the way only her voice could carry, who its intended victim, Brion could not fathom. Herself, or the departing spy, she dared not question as she ushered herself into the folds of the tent.

The parchment neglected from the passerby were clumped awaiting their opening as Lelianna’s gaze fell upon the Inquisitor. Her smile softened, nurturing the Inquisitor’s unease. Something Brion had not suspected, a whisper of the bard Josephine had once known stood before Brion. Her head turned to the side, “I’ve word of our inquiry.”

“Which might that be?” she resisted the urge to bite her lip, or tremble under her gaze. The sultry look the woman carried as she let out a chuckle, unjudging. At this rate, Brion may never know the depths Lelianna’s own information treaded into her history—a realization that only furthered her nausea.

Her chuckle was soft, harmonious, and Brion concluded, at one time, Nightingale had made a beautiful bard. A relished one at that as her hips swayed. Her eyes found Lelianna’s fingers, cusped between them, elegant writing. Perhaps one of a scholar’s? Various translations, she had concluded as she noted the unfamiliar language with parallels of the Fereldan tongue. Which foreign language, she concluded as Leliana’s weighted words caught her unguarded. Pouring dread into her pores as her smile curved ever so slightly. “Why, the one of our dear Cermisius Aclassi, of the Bulls Chargers.” Tevinter.

The nausea settled in the pit of her stomach, coming to a boil as she fought the dread that encompassed her heart. It was true, Nightingale had dug up the vary secrets the Lieutenant kept close to his heart, and she was well equipped. Overtly prepared to expose whatever she had dredged up from origins unknown to Brion. She shivered at the realization, the wary swallowing her whole as her heart pounded in dispute. Lelianna had warned her, something she had not heeded. Naively praying to Andraste the mercenary bore no sorted secrets. Ready, she had sworn she would be ready should the report arrive, no, when the news was received. And yet, she dared not meet the spymaster’s gaze. Mindful of Lelianna’s capabilities, upon her gaze, the Lady Trevelyan was exposed. An open book for which she could fiddle through, no uncouth tactics necessary. Brion’s lips trembled as she reached for the parchment, unsure clear at the pressing situation. Sensing her dismay, or perhaps clear in the Herald’s movements, Lelianna withdrew the report, tucking it carefully to her breast. Close to heart, there was something unexpected. Warmth in pink cheeks, perhaps brought on the cold, or even, dare Brion assume it was brought on by the unfamiliar gesture. Mercy laced in her smile; the Lady Lelianna’s fingers danced across the various messages she had received. What the Inquisitor had concluded was rejected or ignored, was in fact not. Guided with the familiarity of the layout of her desk, she plucked a scroll from the plight. “Cassandra has notified me of word from the Hinterlands.” The world graceful lacked the proper definition of her well poised movements. Shuffling the request into Brion’s hands, devoid of emotions she glanced at her. “It would seem a snipe has caused the farmers with their necessary tasks. It would be best to secure the beast before he undoes the Inquisition’s work—we would not want to lose Master Dennet’s aide.”

Relief from an unexpected place, she felt as though she had been shaken. Confused, Brion held the paper open. Well-practiced, Brion questioned Cassandra’s signature, aware she may have likely received her own calligraphy lessons. Biting her lip, she resisted the urge to press the matter of Krem, but remained grateful at the opportunity to flee the confrontation altogether. “I, I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she admitted, shyly.

“What of this request do you not understand?” Lelianna sighed, a touch of annoyance at the needed explanation as she nestled herself in the various reports. Shook and stunned, Brion stood at a loss for words as her eyes found the spymaster’s back.

Unsure of where this display of kindness might lead. “Leliana, I… thank you,” she whispered, feeling the flush of her own cheeks provide her with sense of life she had misplaced moments prior. “I will depart immediately.” Gathering the loose fabric of the tent in her hand, she could hear the small mum of the woman she left behind. 

“May Andraste guide you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From what we known of Cullen, and the mistakes of his past, I really do believe he spends hours pouring himself over the war table, treating each piece with care. I also imagine this may be a bit of a ritual for him, as there have been findings of corrulation between PTSD and OCD. While not mentioned in the game, I think this is an important part of who he is as a character, but we're here for the delightful Krempuff... Remember, there is little escape from the eyes of Nightingale, and she has spies in various places... Including the Tevinter Imperium, and what information might she have found of our dear lieutenant... we shall see.  
> Please also be aware, I may only post one or two more chapters before this year is over as the holiday season puts a lot of pressure on me as an individual. Please be patient with me, as I promise I am not abandoning this project-- or Krem. <3   
> Speaking of the holidays, I know this can be a very upsetting, and even triggering time for everyone as it hits each person differently.   
> Rememeber, you matter.   
> You are worthy.  
> You are loved.  
> Until Next time, Flower.


	9. Into the Fereldan Wilds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In pursuit of the monster, the Inquistor's party accompanied by the Chargers have found themselves once more in the Fereldan wilds. Through the hills, and the trees, emerged in the very "elfy" shit Sera hates. Fueled by a short temper, and the determination to fuel the little people, the rogue finds herself face to face with a force to be reckoned with.

The smell of the pine trees carried on the wind, transported by a mild breeze that toyed with the Inquisitor’s tied hair. The leaves bustled with the gust, the noise tickling her ears. The sunlight kissed her features, providing a stark climate change from Haven, who found itself buried in snow. The Hinterlands was mild, requiring little more than a cloak. A flourish of wildlife, the Herald of Andraste enjoyed the various creatures their party had passed as they ventured forward through the rural region. The trees towered over the search party, an ever-looming presence of the Fereldan wilds, and the occasional shade. Tucking a small smile, she breathed in the air, a much-needed refuge from her prevalent duties of title. Lost in the untamed country side, her title as well as her duties meant little to the fennecs and rams who roamed the lands. The reports which bared all of Cremisius Aclassi’s secrets forgotten amongst the foliage. How her heart longed to reach out to the branches, and abandon the call of her obligations. On even ground that only the changing landscape could provide, she climbed further. Her hands leaning into the cool iron captivated by the mountainside. In the distance, she could hear the rumbling of a waterfall which sparked an inner turmoil within her. Below the edge of the hillside she ascended, water coursed through the land. Splitting what once was a joined hill, the water tore through the lands below. Nervously glancing at the region across the river, her eyes found the comforting sight of warn armor, its gleam caught in the sunlight.

Across the riverside, the Chargers scoured the hills, each member carefully investigating each tree and bush. From where she stood, she could make out the bend of Krem’s back as she probed at a patch of Elfroot. His armor bore on his back, seemingly unbothered as he rustled through further. She admired his work ethic, in all she had seen, he dedicated himself to his work regardless of the tasks. Nearby, she could see Dalish, a lovely blonde elf whom she had grown accustomed to ask her aout various topics. A curiosity, Brion had first believed was brought on by her unfamiliarity with the “shems” of the Free Marches as the questions grew from simple questions such as how she weaved her hair so, to more personal matters like her preference in companions—the click of her tongue hinting she did not refer to her venturing party. Although her inquiries may have very well have been sparked by the Charger’s post-mission respite at the Singing Maiden. Whether information gathering brought on by her Chief, the attempt of understanding a foreign culture, or even… could such attempts be the elven woman’s attempt at friendship? The questions at time, hit close to home, bringing a heat to her cheeks that the Lady Trevelyan longed to blame on her ale. Dalish’s blonde hair blew in the wind as she used her “bow” to delicately separate branches to peer at the occupants of the trees. There was a tender touch in which the Dalish born woman viewed her surroundings that Brion envied, having only recently been given the privilege of venturing in the wilderness.

From her place, Brion could not hear the cry that must have escaped Dalish’s full lips, but she could see her draw back a step, an arm shielding her face as Skinner hung from the branch, her arms out stretched to the blonde. Her black hair was short, and in this Charger, Brion had few interactions. Not from a lack of trying on the Inquisitor’s part, and perhaps, not absolute avoidance on the other… Whispers carried amongst the tents, and in their rumors, the Herald resolved herself to allow the woman space in the event any of the rumors bore a bit of truth. Not that she relied heavily on their merit, but rather Bull’s, who offered humor filled remarks at Skinner’s brisk nature. From the tree, Skinner hung upside down, her fingers eagerly reaching to Dalish’s own. The movement was open, welcoming in ways Brion could only hope to experience herself. In their movements, they were intimate, and a bit of jealousy nipped at the Lady Trevelyan’s shoulders as neither woman strayed from such behaviors, regardless of whom may be spectating. Trust bearing at each of them as Skinner heaved Dalish into the trees, perhaps a daring rendezvous. The realization bringing a familiar heat to Brion’s cheeks as she pressed forward, her eyes consistently straying to observe the Chargers.

“Ugh, bet they get rashes in places,” Sera groaned, having caught the affectionate display herself. “Very elfy, dontcha think? In the trees, gonna get a branch in their a—”

“Sera, please,” Casandra groaned, her eyebrows already drawn into a scowl, the rogue having already worn on the Seeker’s patience in their voyage. Sera had only offered complaints on their trek, and the tension between the rogue and the Charger’s elven companions had spread across the hold of Haven, Cassandra tasked with the unlucky duty of separating Skinner and Sera in their recent scuffle. The colorful language they had flung at each other met the Chantry, only fueling Josephine Montylet’s distaste with the hasty decision Brion had made in welcoming both the mercenaries and the archer.

Bull released a deep laugh that resonated from his stomach. His teeth showing as he spoke, “Sera, if you’re jealous, I could throw you into the trees.”

“JEALOUS,” she scoffed, her voice raising as birds scattered from the sudden outburst. “Like I friggin’ would be!” Red faced, brought on by either embarrassment or rage, Brion could not guess as the elven woman turned on the Qunari, her finger jabbed at him. “Like you’ve one to tell, ‘haps I’d ought to throw you in a tree!”

“You are welcome to try,” Bull responded, the humor edged on his voice as the curious gaze from the Chargers drew on the Inquisitor’s party.

“This is not helping,” Cassandra sighed, the agitation crossing her face as she squeezed her eyes shut. Her fingers danced on her forehead, and if the Inquisitor had to guess, she suspected through clenched teeth, the Nevarran was the victim of a blossoming migraine.

“Would you prefer if Boss threw you?” There was a chuckle, or perhaps a whisper of knowing that gave Brion pause. “Or are you worried about rejection?”

Brion’s eyebrows raised curiously, her eyes finding Sera’s.

Wide eyed and horrified, Sera lashed out. Nose wrinkled, and jerking her head, Sera slammed her fist into the hillside, letting out a scream or a curse before hissing one last insult. “Piss. Off.”

There was a quiet understanding that spread throughout the group, awkward and unhinged as the rogue kept her back to them, pushing herself further up the landscape from the group. Cassandra moaned, doing her best to keep past with the agile target, and Brion wondered if Cassandra would be able to follow Sera’s albeit swift stomping. The rattle of her armor suggested that the Seeker would give it her all as she trudged forward. Gnawing at her bottom lip, Brion’s eyes found Iron Bull as he shook his head. “Quick temper that one,” he noted before turning to her. “Not the best choice for a scouting mission.” It was true, Brion could admit. Sera’s personality had proven to be a hindrance to the mission at hand. Just as the Inquisition was young, her bonds with her companions required time, and maturing. Most of all, they needed a sense of unity to heighten their teamwork… or perhaps, she would request Varric the next time Bull joined her side… This of course meant that she would need to request someone other than the Seeker as the tension had grown between the dwarf and herself. Brion released a sigh, despite their common cause, it meant little in terms of compatibility. Her eyes wandered from the Qunari, finding the Chargers once more at the opposite end. There he was again, a dedicated mercenary as Krem stretched his back, his head turning to gaze out at the waters below. On easy legs, Brion watched him with a smile. While he found himself an able axe bearer, there was something was something in his movements that was fluid, graceful. In doing so, she often wondered where such a trait had been nurtured… Court affairs were common place in Tevinter, she had once read… Had Krem been taught to dance?

The realization filled her heart with dread, weighing her shoulders down as they dropped. Her eyes wide at the implications such matters could mean. Tevinter trained, and perhaps at dance as well, what did this mean to the enigma that found itself in the mercenary’s footsteps. What had he left behind, if he had left it behind at all? Biting her lip, she shook her head, his movements only weighing due to the report she had left in Haven. Perhaps, it required her attention more than she wanted to admit, the potential impact… _Could Krem be tied to a Magister?_

“Seems Sera isn’t the only one afraid of rejection,” Bull hummed, stretching his own legs as he parted from her side. His footsteps were heavy, clomping on the cliff side sending various pebbles tumbling down the path behind them. Her eyes fell to Krem once more as the flickers of his wrists drew her attention. Waving widely, her heart pounded in her chest at his eager greeting, her own hand responding without a second thought. A small smile on her lips as Rocky dug his elbows into the Tevinter’s side. Turning on him, she could see Krem, and the dwarf exchanging words, a lighthearted argument as she whispered a prayer to Andraste above.

The trek through the Hinterlands was eventful, provided by cursing from Sera and Iron Bull prodding at her insecurities as they found themselves at the top of the cliff, looming over the rushing waters below. On the opposite side of the river, the Chargers traced similar footing, each dedicating themselves to the task at hand. A worthy trait, one that was severely lacking amongst the Search Party Brion had formed. Breathing in quietly, she closed her eyes, doing her best to listen to the sounds around her. Quietly tugging at the parchment in her pocket, she unfolded it before them. Catching Cassandra’s curious gaze as she leaned over her shoulder to gaze at the rough hand writing of the horse master. In vivid detail, Master Dennet described a beast with gleaming red eyes that delighted in snipping at the Druffalo’s heels in the fields despite being no larger than a fennec. In another report provided by his wife, she writes of the dreaded monster delighting in overturning her garden, taking no spoils aside from the joy of having pillaged her crops. With large, looming ears, the creature burrows into the forest, its hearing adapt, and consistently aware of any would be pursuers, thus why the farmers had no such luck in hunting the bastard themselves. Brion quietly pondered the description of the beast, her eyes falling at the title they had given such a creature. “Snipe,” she whispered quietly. In all her time, lost amongst the written word of the Ostwich Tower, she could recall no such mentioning of this manner of animal. Yet, from their vivid depictions, it would appear the beast, the Snipe took great delight in making itself known. The nagging question ate at the back of her mind as Cassandra’s thick ascent hummed in her ear.

“We are to bang rocks in an attempt to draw it’s attention?” The doubt on her features was clear, her brown eyes meeting Brion’s, both offering a pause at the oddity of the request.

Searching her other companions, separated due to their prior dispute, Brion noted no adherent emotion on Bull’s face. The leather of his eye patch dulling with age, his skin a lighter shade in the light as the holster of his chest groaned against his movements. His years of Hissrad training proving fruitful as she could gage no true expression on the matter at hand. Neither did he reach for a rock as his horns titled so, his ears that drew into a point listening to their surroundings. He remained neutral to the mission, perhaps bored with its minor impact.

Yet, it was Sera who drew her attention. The redness of her face had faded as her quick fingers gripped at two separate rocks and began slamming them into one another without doubt. In a scowl, she appraised Cassandra and the Lady Trevelyan, pausing only to scold the two of them. “To use to nobles blowing smoke up your ass. They’re farmers for Andraste’s sake,” her tone mocking as she turned from them, banging the stones together once more. “Not the type to lie, just need help.” The striking of iron against what Brion assumed must be onyx in the elven woman’s hand, she did her best to ignore the nagging question that bit at her mind… The Ostiwch Circle prided themselves on research, especially on such matter of beasts. No Master Dennet is not the kind of man to lie, she assured herself, batting away the doubt as she found two separate stones within her palms. Shrugging her shoulder at Cassandra, who looked bewildered as she drew backwards, perhaps her headache was beginning to weigh on her. Although, Brion suspected the truth was Cassandra questioned the madness of the situation. Her thick eyebrows arched as she did her best not to argue with the Inquisitor’s movements.

Straying from each other’s sides, maintaining a distance in which they could hear each other, Brion’s arms grew weary. Her muscles tiring from the consistent knocking of the rocks within her palm, she let out a small cry, feeling the blistering of the flesh of her hands. Hours of slamming the stones against one another had caused the scratch on her flesh, a movement she retained no callouses for. Slowly, but surely, she could feel the scratch producing a small tinge of blood that wondered down her wrist. Letting out a small sigh, Brion ignored the agitation and burn of her fingers as she pressed forward. Master Dennet and the farmers had entrusted the Inquisition with this task, one she intended to see through. Yet, she had to admit, her heart longed for the days the callouses of her finger tips contained merit, willed against the bend of the tomes she would read… In this place, such resistance meant little to the will of the wilderness. Not that she regretted her voyage through the Hinterland, in truth, she had grown fond of the country of Fereldan, and perhaps, would visit once more should the world no longer need her after the closing of the Breach… _What would become of the Inquisition?_ She thought, quietly pressing the stones together once more, her thoughts beginning to wander. The Chargers would be on their way to their next employer. Between sighs, and the cracking of rocks, her eyes peered at the sky above, the birds looming in the air. There had been no reveal of the Snipe, and Brion could only wonder if the Chargers fared better than they had. Her eyes closing as she continued to bang, hearing the distant echoes of her companions calling for the beast, doing her best to ignore the cursing of her rogue acquaintance.

“Friggidty,” Sera hissed, drawing near. Dropping the rocks as she drew her bow at the ready. Arrow notched as she scanned her surroundings. Terror seized at her petite frame as her hair stood on ends, releasing another curse. In her eagerness to provide aide to the little people in need, she had ignored her instincts. No, not elfy instincts, shit on that, she had pressed too far, ignoring the prints that wound themselves through the hills. Damn rocks, supposed to call a stupid Snipey thing, not at all. Pissed off a bear, absolutely. The cloth draping’s of her outfit hung as the scarf covered her chest slightly, dressed for a scouting mission alone, she bit her lip. Not at all protection from a friggin’ pissed off bear! Gritting her teeth, she moved backwards, doing her best to remain aware. A Hinterland Great Bear charging from its resting place, slashing its claws into a nearby tree as she retreated backwards. _Andraste’s tits_ , she thought with a hiss as she flung herself from a rock pass the trees. “Frickin’ rocks. Frickin’ trees. NATURE!” She howled as she flipped backwards, leasing an arrow in her withdraw. Quick despite its large size, the bear smashed its paw, batting the arrow as though it were a useless twig. Baring its teeth as it let out a low growl, its dark eyes traced Sera’s delicate movements. _Trees_ , she thought before dismissing the notion. Not elfy shit. Not now. She cursed. Although the admission she had little experience scaling bark was enough to shame her as a rogue, and only a rogue.

The clack of stones against stones drew her attention as she charged forward, her eyes settling on the back of a fair mage. Brion’s blonde hair tousled in the wind, reeking of honey and cinnamon as the staff at her back swayed with her fluid movements. Sera wrinkled her nose, annoyed instantly by the magic thingy as she let out a cry. “BEARY,” she screamed. No, not enough. “Pissed friggin’ bear!” Yet, there was little delay her speed, Sera’s eyes widening as the world whirled beneath her feet, drawing closer to the Inquisitor. Past Brion loomed the cliff side, little distance from where she stood. The speed in which Sera flung herself from the rocks caused a tremble in her bones. _Bad, bad idea_. Unable to halt her weight, Sera did her best to skid to a stop. Her efforts quickly ignored as the dust scattered against the cliffs, her weight slamming the Inquisitor forward. Lunged forward, Sera’s fingers scratched the edge of the cliff, her fingers torn raw from the sudden standstill her body dangled above the water below, the scream of the unsuspecting Herald of Andraste shattered her ear drums. Wide eyed, and horrified, Sera watched as the Lady Trevelyan descend off the cliff, her heart bordering on hysteria as the Inquisitor’s body narrowly tumbled pass the sharp edges of the rocks below, their extremities peeking through the waves. A knot formed quickly choking the breath from her throat as her nails dug into her bow as she dangled from the edge she had fortunately caught. Choking out humble words, “no, no, no!” Her voice practically a sob. It was an emotion she had not expected at the muzzle of the beast, its eyes looming over her, but the loss of Andraste’s blessed ass flung from the cliffs- whom she had sent hurling, panic wasn’t unreasonable. It was annoying. The harsh danger that was the bloody Seeker’s accent, more so.

“The Inquisitor!” Her faith hanging by a thread as Sera heard what she could only assume was the scrape of her shield striking her armor, the distinct scratching of nails against metal. The scratch of the horror in the warrior’s voice was striking as the grunt of the Qunari joined side.

“She missed the rocks,” The Iron Bull accessed, his voice a growl as his axe cut the air.

“She cannot swim,” the Nevarran woman screamed, her voice shrilled as the pitch of iron smashing her shield, her sword banging to draw the beast’s attention from the cliff, offering no relief to Sera, who’s eyes found the pools of daggers below her.

Only Andraste’s chosen win such a gamble, the reality shattering her nerves as rage coursed through her petite body. Shoving her feet from the cliff, her fury bleeding through as her body curved into the air. The moment her feet hit the grass beneath them, her arrow was drawn, finding its mark within the beast’s muzzle. “Friggidty, frucking, bloody,” as her toes smashed into the now corpse of her pursuer, biting her teeth as her screams rattled its bones. “ELFY SHIT,” she hissed, negligent to her companions peering over the edge, their eyes desperately searching the tides below. On batted breaths, the Qunari warrior’s eyes canned the depths, measuring the direction the tide carried. The clatter of her shield and sword thrown to the ground, Cassandra’s fingers were adept, wretched as they tore at the straps that bound her armor to her breast. Bull’s words of warning falling on deaf ears as she trembled to tear the remainder from her body, the sound of her nails tearing at loops and buckles met with Sera’s curses. Resistant to the large hands that captivated hers, Cassandra let out a shrill, her cheekbones hitting the light as her deep brown eyes met the leather of the Chief’s eyepatch. Provoked as she whispered a curse, rearing to slap the man before her, paused only by the unmistakable scream of an ally.

Her pale blonde hair torn from its intricate braids, unraveled from the scurry she had unexpectedly found herself amongst. There was a tremor, her large eyes as wide as they possibly could be, the color undeniable as tears found their way down her long eyelashes. Dalish fell to her knees, a tremor through her body as Skinner’s fingers had found her shoulders. Calloused as they rubbed at her shoulder caps, a rare, nurturing display she had suspected lurked beneath her brisk nature. Dalish’s fingers worked at the grass, shuddering at the realization—Krem had jumped.

It was the cursed shouts that had carried on the wind, detected by the remaining Chargers. The brutish nature of the accent, Fereldan in nature, and it had left little question: the other search party was emerged in a struggle. The screams of the tempered elven woman Dalish had come to known shook her, the archer had never seemed the jumpy sort. Only as the party drew closer, her “bow” drawn in clutched fingers had the realization set in. Amongst the fray, the Chiefs words carried, followed by the rushed and horrified of the Lady Seeker. Their words carried; in one manner, or another, intentional or accidental, the Herald of Andraste had plummeted to the depths below. The harrowing words encompassed in a weighted Nevarran accent. _She cannot swim_ , Dalish had thought, her breath caught in her throat as her eyes found her companion not far off. It was instinct—for the both of them. Torn from Skinner’s side, her body reacted without thought, her hand desperately grasping his forearm, his chest piece abandoned to the Elfroot behind them. Her sudden grab accompanied the unbalance of struggling out of his chausses, the armor from his legs puddled at his ankles. It was little more than a kick that freed him from their clasps; by this point, Dalish was certain her nails dug through the loose fabric of his undershirt, she felt the flesh beneath it as he yanked his arm. Her body lurched unable to cling to the battle trained warrior, left helplessly on her knees, his form disappeared over the edge of the cliffs. She dared not glimpse past the rim, terrified to discover he had fallen victims to the tides below. She trembled under Skinner’s hold her senses heightened. Without words, Dalish accepted Skinner’s gesture, the city elf was unfamiliar with intimacy, and less so of comfort. Not that Dalish deserved the sentiment, yet she could not fight the urge to lean into her touch. Her body shook as the remainder of the Chargers emerged from the woods.

It was through met eyebrows, the grays that touched at his aging face that Stitches appraised the situation. Dalish on collapsed knees, unharmed physically. Emotionally held together by her near consort, her dark hair draping the strands catching the tears that fell. He drew in a breath, releasing it carefully as Grim appeared at his side, both watching quietly as Rocky on shaken legs, peered over the edge. The dwarf had never been fond of heights, a well-known fact amongst the Chargers, but as sure as Paragon Aeducan was stout, he peered over the edge. “Noble girls,” he mumbled, his square jaw clenched. His cowl shrouded his face, the expression unreadable to the others. Yet, the shake of his shoulders revealed his unease. Swallowing a lump in his throat, Grim moved to his side. Dalish shook under Skinner’s hold, shouldering a blame that was not hers to claim.

It was then, Stitches paused. Through closed eyes, he breathed in the wind. Drank in the despair of his surroudnings, through a tight breath, he pressed himself forward. Quietly, Stitches gathered the armor Krem had left behind. Folding the chausses over a bent arm, doing his best to clutch his breast plate, the iron having never bore on him as it did in this moment. Maker, Krem had been hasty, and in doing so, had left a treasured possession behind. In an unexpected way, Rocky’s observation was precise; having thrown caution to the wind, messy shit was likely ahead of the young boy, blindly guided by his affections. The realization resulting in Stitches releasing the pinch of his shoulders as he whispered a gentle prayer under his breath. While the lad had disputed such things with Dalish, it had become ever clear to the Chargers, Krem’s feelings were genuine. As Stitches murmured his prayer, his heart longed for Andraste to answer his request of a joyful reunion—for understanding and trust to remain intact upon their reconciliation. As one might expect from close courters, Stitches had grown to care for the boy, had seen him endure heartbreak, survive bloodshed, and mend wounds both physical, and those unseen. And while each member of the Chargers cherished their makeshift family, an unlikely union of mercenaries, Stitches longed to bear witness to a new stage of his lieutenant’s life, one in which he had found a haven for himself. In spare moments, he had heard a longing in the warrior’s voice—particularly in one job in which they had found themselves carrying small children on their shoulders, and in that operation, Stitches concluded… Andraste willing, he would live to see the day Cremisius Aclassi raised a family. Steeling his resolve, Stitches grasped the war axe, carelessly tossed to the side. His axe, _damned thing_ , he thought with a sigh as he did his best to heave it over his shoulder as he straightened his back. Yes, his age was baring on his bones once again, and yet, despite what Stitches had endured during the Blight, his heart did not shutter. Unwavering as he squared his shoulders, his eyes meeting first with Grim’s. “We’ve still a job to complete,” from there, he found Dalish, who jerked her face from him. Whether from grief, or even provoked, Stitches did not know, and he had not the time to spare. No, guided by faith alone, he turned his back from the Chargers, pressing forward, aware of the burden of Cremisius Aclassi’s armor.

“Our lieutenant will join us at the rendezvous point… with the Inquisitor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summaries, summaries. I just cannot write summaries. As we move in this New Year, I hope it is everything you want it to be. May you find everything you are looking for in 2021, and let go of the burdens that way you down. Remember the little things that bring you joy, and dedicate yourself to the things that matter- whatever they may be. May you meet kindness, may you know kindness, and may you be willing to give of yourself to those who are worthy.   
> Most of all, I hope you remember that you matter.   
> You are loved.   
> You are worthy.  
> HAPPY NEW YEAR!  
> Until next time, Flower


	10. This Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A leap of faith from a waterfall to personal feelings, left in the wake of surviving a near death experience, and stranded from their allies, the dou find themselves alone in the Fereldan wildnerness. Enjoying a moment's peace from the demands of title, and a hidden past, Brion welcomes the one-on-one time with her favorite mercenary. And yet, she cannot help but notice the clear dismay of the man before her. It would seem, the Inquisitor is not the only one to take a leap of faith, a conclusion to the daunting decision presented by the Lady Nightingale, their time alone impacts her answer.
> 
> Should she trust the man for everything he claims to be, or should the Herald of Andraste strip away the mask of a wouldbe intruder?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting this New Year off with what is a happy surprise-- an extended chapter! Normally I prefer to add these notes at the end of the chapter to avoid any spoilers, however, this entire chapter could potentially be triggering for a few readers, and I cannot have you diving in without warning:  
> 1\. We've a near death experience, in particular a near drowning. While not touched on too much, I really wish to express the importance of calling emergency responders if you happen upon such an instance (hopefully not, but still!). The studies of how to respond to a drowning are all pretty diverse, but, all agree that emergency responders are the FIRST step. They will often guide you from this point.  
> 2\. We will be discussing scaring, physical and hinting at emotional, and such things can often be triggering!  
> 3\. the last, but NOT the least important, we will touch a bit on Krem's background (although not TOO much). There is however, the mention of the strain of his relationship with his mother (trigger warning!) but as always, I want you to be aware in an attempt to better decide for yourself if you are in a good place to read such things.
> 
> In the event you wish to skip over ANY of these things, please scroll down until you see paragraph beginning with, "Little had changed since her time away from Haven...", or consider using the find/look for option provided by most internet browsers, and key this sentence in. I have ensured that there are no other sentences/paragraphs/etc that contain this, so you should be transported to this paragraph quickly. <3  
> I will also add a few "key" information in the note at the end of the chapter for those of you who opt to skip to help prevent the feeling of "missing out". Please, do not feel pressured, and do not read if you feel any of these topics could be upsetting for you. As always, if you feel that I missed something, or made a mistake, please let me know! Authenticity is KEY to story telling, and I will happily right any wrongs!

It transpired as instinct; his pants undone in moments, by the time his breastplate met the ground, Krem had flung himself to the tides below. The realization of what he had done had not met his senses until he met the water’s surface. The shock coursed through his body, pounded at his head, nipped at his fingers that parted the rise of the wave. Yet, cognizance could not defer his strokes as his muscles strained against the wave, desperately fighting against the high tide. It shattered his body, tossed him effortlessly through the water, the undertow unrelenting as he gripped at the slippery rocks. The consistent thrash shoved him against the razor-sharp edges, tearing in to his shoulder; seizing the opportunity, he clung to the smooth surfaces. Water sputtered from his lips, coughing out the unexpected swallowed water from his lungs. “Your worship,” he shouted, his voice hoarse as he struggled to breath. His hair clenched his face, drenched from head to toe, he shivered against the cold. His eyes scouring the area, Cassandra’s piercing scream in his ears. _She cannot swim_ , he thought in horror as he fought unrelenting waves. Blinking the water from his lashes, “Y-your worship!” His voice growing into a hiss, torn by the freshwater he had managed to choke down, and the remainder he had forced out. Trembling, growing dizzy, far too distracted to recognize the blood loss presented from his shoulder, only faintly remained of the assault by the bite of pain that coursed through his body as he shifted himself to another jagged rock. There he skimmed, clinging on tired and wary bones that met the nips of sharp edges, his heart in his gullet. Krem braised his body to each thrash of a wave that tore its way through the treacherous river, his response growing duller by the passing tide. _She cannot swim_. Had she found herself thrown to the depths of the water, or perhaps unable to fight the flood, the Lady Trevelyan had been carried downstream. Each pull of his muscles ached, it was only a matter of time before his stamina depleted, years of training forsaking him for this moment as he let out one final, hoarse shout, “BRION.”

A foreign bunch of soaked fabric nestled against the rocks drew his attention. Scathed cheeks, and eyes closed, the Inquisitor’s hair was torn from its unusual state. Such a horrific moment marking the first time he had ever seen her with her hair down, the cuts of her cheeks encourage the anxiety that ate his very being. Despite his pleading calls, she did not stir; numbness poured through his pores, ate at his thoughts, and reason as he threw the last bit of energy, he could mustard into retrieving her. Her hair knotted in his fingers instantly, the lieutenant’s eyes desperately searching for a moment’s rest from the unrelenting waters. In such a narrow river, he should have suspected there would be no pause, no foreseeable river bank. The ever-looming presence of the hills above, tremoring the sinking reality, they had found themselves a watery grave. Thedas’ last hope drowned at the base of a hill in the Fereldan wilds of all places. If he had the voice, he would have cursed, any and all obscenities at his availability, Tevinter or native tongue, whatever came at the ready. To have survived this long to meet death within a stream, ridiculous he thought with a bitter sigh, still searching his surroundings… surely something, he thought on uncertain grounds. The water pooled one direction, searching the depths of his recognition. They had traveled this way had they not? The lay of the land hadn’t been unforgiving, in fact, it had been surprisingly pleasant. Before their trek up the hillside, the Chargers had stopped to fill their rams’ skins, their water resources having gown low since they had left Haven. _The Chargers_ , his heart felt heavy, his mind drawing to his mix-matched group. Krem had never imagined the day he would part from the group—he never had never wanted to leave his make shift family. Least of all in such a way… _No, not_ yet, he thought, wrinkling his nose. He was their lieutenant, Cremisius Aclassi of the Bull’s Chargers. The Chief would never forgive him if he accepted his death here. Tightening his arm around Brion’s waste, he tucked her face into the nook of his neck. He would not be dying on his ass today, steeling his resolve… he let go.

Letting go, giving up, surrender, however you chose to define it, the words had never come naturally to Cremisius Aclassi. As a boy, Krem had been a willful child, at one point stripping from his elaborate costume to his undergarments: a tunic and chaps. Throwing the discarded clothing at his dance instructor his mother had hired in an attempt to secure a future he detested. In all matters of the word, it was an active display of revolt, an unplanned one at that, the ultimate truth of his unwillingness to bend to his mother’s will another moment. He was determined to carve out his own path, one in which he needn’t dress as a puppet with a fondness for theatrical make up, nor conceal the very essence of his being. He could recall the shock of his dance educator having bloomers tossed at his face, as though he had been slapped across the face, the students roared in laughter. The gasps of his mother met with the murmured whispers of other parents acting as onlookers. She had done her best to maintain her composure, but, Krem had not inherited his obstinate behavior from his father. No, much as the young lad had dared to bare his soul, his mother revealed her own animosity, strengthening her resolve. Her child would see the magisterium, one way or another. It was in that moment, the gauntlet was thrown down, the impact clattering not on the ground, a physical challenge in all rights of the gesture. Yes, he had been dragged from the ballroom, kicking and screaming much like a toddler who had yet to receive etiquette lessons. Although much to his mother’s dismay, this displays that day had put a snag in any potential marital propositions, a small victory that would ensue in their war. Yet, it was the sense of freedom, the authenticity met by acceptance of himself and his peers that gave him the strength to endure; it had become Krem’s life mission to exert his sense of being regardless of the risks involved. In doing so, he had found himself in treacherous waters, from the moment he found himself on the tavern floor for falsifying military documents to joining the vary Qunari, who tore the tribune and his followers from him to the very moment he had convinced the Chief to approach the Inquisition. It was his sense of self, this integrity that had guided him through his life, kept him intact despite the bleak odds of survival. Perhaps, it was this very stubborn, self-preserving trait that had been the saving grace for the lieutenant and the Inquisitor.

The water had thrown them further down the stream than he suspected, dancing on the edge of his consciousness and comatose, Krem was faintly aware of the roar of the water fall in the distance, his body sore from the aftermath of its ire. Though from where he laid flat on his stomach, it was nothing more than a faraway hum, seemingly harmless at that. Breathing in the fresh air his lungs felt the sting as his fingers dug into the bed of grass, he had dragged the two of them onto. The call of birds, who whispered above them as he let out a small cry, fighting to remain conscious. The near promise of trees catching shade as the pink hues danced across the Fereldan landscape. The sun bidding them farewell as the evening bid out the remainder of the light of day. Through the howl of his muscles, he surged, quickly yanking himself on shaky knees, the water dripping off the ends of his hair as he pulled her to his side, searching for any remainder of life within the Inquisitor. Her cheeks had yet to lose their color, the small thrum of her chest drawing his attention. Fingers finding her pulse, faint in frequency. Delicate as the curve of her lips, but still present. Quickly unbuckling her staff from her back, working on a clenched chest, sore muscles, and the nausea induced by anxiety, he made quick effort of clearing her pathway. Tilting her head to the side as he began compressing his fist to her chest, desperately fighting the worry that poured through him as he brought his lips to her own. Paused, drawing his fist once more into her chest, meeting her lips once more. Just as the silent horrors gripped at his heart, digging his knuckles in as hard as he could mustard; it was the lurch, the yank of her abdomen that jerked him to her side. The horrific sound as she expelled the remainder of water from her body, choked out from her throat and nostrils. Terrible, and unquestionably painful, he had never felt so relieved to hear the unpleasant stagger. Life pulsed through her as his fingers worked their way soothingly across her back, rubbing as a grateful smile found his features. Squeezing his eyes quietly, the shudder of her body, he would owe Mother Giselle a visit upon their return to Haven, a happy one at that.

Shaking, panicked, her honey brown eyes were strained and red, wide-eyed as she jerked her gaze, sending her curls across her shoulders. Trembling and uneasy, he understood the edge of fears she had encountered, and while his heart was more than sympathetic to the terror that she very well was experiencing, he could not the ebb the smile from his face. She was still here. Through the flash of anger, she offered him, that turned to horror as she appraised not only him, but their surroundings, curling her feet to her chest, sending the now calm water into ripples. The overbearing scent of blood lotus hung in the air, similar to the fire of a cinnamon whiskey offered in Fereldan taverns, warm and bold. Her fingers held her sides, her thoughts trembling as the water dripped off the strands of her ashen gold hair. The honey of her eyes stroking a quiet flame, the striking color he remembered upon their meeting. Quietly accessing her needs, he carefully held her sides, pulled her into a firm hug. Under his hold, she trembled, but dared not shy away from him. In fact, she seemed to lean into his touch. He petted her hair, the occasional knot of a curl catching on his fingers, and despite the pull of a tangle, she did not resist. Offered no fuss to the gesture, and in that time, she had calmed. It was delicate, the movements she made within his grasp, the length of her lashes as she glanced up at him through strands of hair that had found themselves disheveled. The plus of her lips that drew into a pout, finding himself unable to fight recalling memories of when his had met hers. Clearly innocent in his intentions, and yet, the softness of her sulk bringing a gentle warmth to his chest. Yes, she was here.

“You’re bleeding,” she whispered, her fingers tracing the weave of his tunic. The touch, while in all intentions were gentle in nature, sent shock waves down his spine. As though he had been struck by her touch, the mar of blood staining the fabric as she tilted closer for inspection. All well intended, and a sign of their budding ~~relationship~~ friendship, but the lieutenant could not bat the rising dread that puddled in his stomach, or the way his body violently jerked from her. It was not often he felt this sense of urgency, the revolt of his own cells as they nagged at his apprehension. Tucking his arm into his chest, he could feel the chafe of his binder, the tug of it against his flesh. The throb of his skin rubbed raw as he twisted from her; no, he had not considered the level of exposure he had risked in his impulse to rescue the Herald of Andraste. The anxiety of his situation at hand tore at him, the vulnerability that nagged at his shoulders that sent a chill down his side. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” The fragile edge of her voice only further sank his heart. A knot threatening to form in his throat as he peaked over his shoulder at her recoiled figure. Struggling for words as she withdrew her hand from him, there was a quiet understanding. An unspoken conclusion, quiet as she shrugged off the cloak she often kept wrapped around her throat. He had always assumed it was akin to the cold of the weather. “Please, Krem,” she whispered, offering the pull of fabric. The feelings of remorse for causing such an expression on her fair face, and yet, the suspicion that hung on his outer edge, nagging at his core. Has she noticed? The drench state of his clothing, the transparent of his tunic against the shade of his binder. Through clenched teeth, realization at the state of himself, his defensive edge spurred. _Of course, she had._

Offering a small smile, one that hitched his breath, “It was porude of me; I hadn’t considered… “Her fingers fumbled as she delicately draped the tug of cloth on his shoulders, weary of any physical contact. “MY younger brother, Emrys, when we were children, he missed an arrow batched by our sister, Maeve. He had shown so much promise; she didn’t realize she was pushing him.” A slim finger tracing from her cheek bone to the set of her jawline, “Our older brothers scolded us, we’re his older sisters after all, but mother and father were proud, a warrior of Andraste should have scars,” the smile slipped from her face, her voice following suit. “Emrys… he didn’t see it that way,” Adverting her gaze from him, her hands dug in a knapsack at her side, finding a red potion Krem recognized as a healing concoction. “Work as a mercenary, I imagine you’ve your share of scars. If you’re uncomfortable with my tending to your wounds, perhaps this could be of some assistance.” In her delicate features, the realization hit him… in his desire to protect his privacy, he had wounded her over an innocent inquiry. Fingers wrapped around the fabric she provided; his heart pounded in his rib cage. His hair standing on ends as the goosebumps licked at his flesh. His movements were sharp, rigid, and in this, he knew old scars were showing in ways that the Lady Trevelyan could not heal, buried wounds that he thought he had let go with age. Yet, as he curled into himself, the realization that the wounds still remained fresh in some aspects. Though they had no place in this moment, not with her at this time. Forcing a pressed smile, his hazel eyes found her golden ones. Softened under their tender gaze, he breathed in a tight breath as he evaluated the great care, she took to provide him with distance, considerate of his aversion.

“We’ve may need of those, best to have you touch it up, yeah?” His eyebrows knit as he folded the fabric over his chest accordingly, thorough of how vulnerable his movements could leave him at her expense as he left his shoulder exposed to her care. Her fingers were delicate, thoughtful at the way they glided over his flesh. Daring a single glance at her round face, confirmed her eyes never strayed from his shoulder, dedicating herself to his wound. The glow that accompanied her finger tips was warm, soothing as they massaged into his wound, coaxing out the knot of his shoulder blade. The faint moan that escaped him was mortifying, harrowing at the release as he pulled from her, his ears burning as he jerked his head. He could feel the jump of her fingers, caught off guard by the interaction. The fear that laced through him beckoned his attention to anywhere he could divert his gaze: the trees, a cloud, the pull of the waters, was that a new shade of blood lotus? Spindleweed maybe? Desperate to avoid her smoldering gaze that followed his movements, his grasp tightening on his clothe. Maker’s breath, how had he found himself in such a compromising situation.

Once more her touch pulled, circular motions as the magic weaved at her digits. The curve of her motions pulling and drawing as the blood seared from his clothing. “I’m afraid, Stitches is a bit more experienced at this than myself,” her voice soft as though her instincts warned her of the edge of Krem’s movements, how their close proximity tore at his nerves. Threatening his existence, his comfort, and the reality seemed to tinge on her, her fingers worked quickly until finally, she released him from her hold. It was only when he spared her a side glance that the lieutenant realized how red her cheeks had grown, how her lip trembled as his breath tickled her hair. “I-I’m sorry,” she whispered sheepishly as she gathered herself onto her heels, pulling herself from the ground. It was a stuttered, a hurried apology, the origins he could only assumed were brought on by his unease as it bled onto her.

“Brion,” his voice firmed as his eyes found her own. Swallowing back the lump in his throat, the darkness of the day enclosed upon them, the sounds of crickets humming in the air, and the overall glow of fireflies taking flight in the comfort of the night. It had grown quiet as the stars peeked from behind the clouds of the late hour. “Brion, I—”

“You needn’t explain, Krem,” shaking her head lightly. The pause of her coy smile, the slow approach as her hand found his shoulder was warm, soothing as her magic had been as they weaved through his wound. The depths of affection laced in her voice, he could not gauge if she spoke of the defensive nature at the realization he had left his safety net behind, although the burn of her cheeks suggested otherwise. In his adept horror as he leaned his head back, it dawned on him—the moan. “Healing magic, it’s well--,” the tremble of her voice as her eyes swept away from his. “A-anyways, I’m afraid, it seems to late to venture back to encampment. I’ll set up camp.”

“I- pardon?”

Brion’s eyes widened at the unusual sense of urgency in the lieutenant’s voice, noting the unease in his movements as he pulled from her, and he found himself shamed by his inability to hide his anxiety at the mention of spending the night alone with the woman before him. “I, well, yes. We wouldn’t want to draw the attention of the wolves at this hour without your axe. Best to rest on that shoulder, anyways.” Her voice could not contain her own surprise, nor the grin that spread on warm cheeks. “Sir Aclassi, have you perhaps not spent the night in the company of a woman?”

“I, well, yes of course,” his sputtered, drawing back on his hand as he gazed up at her. Watching the glow of her hands as she weaved warmth into her palms. The flicker of mischief on her lashes as she provided the friction, the small crackles of a hearth taking life in her grasp. Placing it on spare driftwood, the ignition was as effortless as one of Dalish’s “old elven tricks”. The hint of allure as she leaned forward to better peek at his response. It was then it occurred to him how he watched her, to which he was quick to look away, once again finding himself bashful under her gaze. “Y-your worship, you’ll spark the rumor mill, should someone hear you teasing me.”

He had never thought he’d see the day, the lady he had grown accustomed to, shy in her endeavors to the coquette before him, a persona he suspected few, if any had witnessed. A joy Krem had to admit brought him a bit of joy as he fought the heat of his cheek. “I’m sorry for our current predicament, as you are on my behalf, but we’ve little choice in the matter…” There it was, a teasing smile as she tucked her chin to her shoulder. The slightest tease of a giggle in her voice, “I promise you. I will remain a proper lady— your virtue shall remain intact.”

Nightfall in the Hinterlands had never felt so peaceful. The late hour had drawn the overall temperature down as the gentle call of crickets danced in the distance. Through closed eyes, Brion sipped in the stillness of the darkness. The occasional crackle of firewood engulfed in the gentle flame she had produced. Its warmth touching her face as she laid on her back, finding herself gazing at the stars above as the smoke puddled at their depths, desperately reaching for their unattainable light. Always falling short as they dissipated into the breeze. She could smell the warmth of the blood lotus by the water nearby, the fresh air inspiring a sense of comfort in her breast as the Lady Trevelyan revealed in the unexpected interlude as her companion prodded at the kindle. The distinct crack as Krem fed the fire, the shadows of its flames gracing his handsome face. The smallest trio of freckles kissing the smallest space near his lips, making Brion a believer in the tell of Andraste’s kisses leaving such marks on the blessed. His cheeks bones dipping into the distinct chisel of his chin as his eyebrows drew forward. In truth, some aspects of this moment appeared intimate, a detail the Inquisitor relished, and yet, she suspected something weighed heavily on the mercenary’s mind. At first, she had dismissed the notion, assumed that she was feeding her low self-esteem, and otherwise absorbed by her once again, near-death experience. The horror flashing through her thoughts each time she closed her eyes. The swell of the waters as she tumbled to their depths; the way her body thrashed desperately against the current. Useless, unfamiliar movements that fell on depth shallows, only through Andraste’s light had she been blessed to find herself discarded amongst the rocks, and even more so when she discovered herself revived at the generosity of Krem’s bravery. The memory of his hands pressed against her back weighting on her cheeks as she let out an embarrassed, and satisfied hum of a sigh. Breathy in nature, and yet, his stillness despite her teasing caused a tremor within the depths of her heart, giving rise to the frantic beating bosom.

Utilizing a large chunk of driftwood, Krem had settled himself comfortably as he used a spare tree limb, he had found in his foraging to nudge the flame. The hum of the night, the glow of the campfire doing little to calm the excitement of her heart, the silhouette merely reminding her of the attractiveness of her companion. Through a side glance she followed him, drinking the intimacy of the moment, their interactions rarely one on one. Perhaps it was the unfamiliarity of the situation the Lady Trevelyan had found herself revealing in. In love, she was unversed, and in fact, could count on one hand how many trysts she had experienced in her life. A slight embarrassment at her age, one she admittedly she daydreamed of amending. Yet, the blush drained from her cheeks as distress tinged on his well-defined features.

Biting her lip, she pulled herself from her resting position, seated as she evaluated his movements, haven yet to draw his attention. The lieutenant was buried in his thoughts, unaware of how she stared at him. Studying the draw of his lips, she nibbled at her own. Her eyebrows meeting as she glimpsed at her feet, the muck of the stream still drawn on her boots. Breathing in the night once more in attempt to settle her heart, she noticed how his hand would find his torso. Carefully holding it from time to time, yet she could not ignore the wince of his features as he drew his hand back once more, the anguish of his unmentioned burdens clear. Had he touched his shoulder, she would have ventured a wager that she had made a mistake in her care of his wound, yet, it was often his own ribs he often held, his movements revealing how his bones ached beneath his tunic. Her thoughts wondered to the vague memory of her younger brother, how Emrys trembled at his own reflection in the shaving mirror. A young boy on the cusp of manhood, the scar had impacted so much more than a simple physical would that would heal in time. The great care he had taken in growing his hair out in response to a young maid shuddering at the mar of his features. Her exclaim had startled him more so than herself, and in the wake of proper healing, a deeper would had captivated his boyish features. A guilt that weighed heavily on her sister and herself, Maeve for having scarred their kid brother, and Brion for lacking familiarity with healing at the time. The irony of her magic awakening within the year; in her rare interludes provided by family affairs beckoning her home from the stone walls of the Ostwick Circle, she had witnessed little Emrys as a man, or how it had impacted his fortitude.

Carefully retrieving a poultice from her knapsack, she toyed with it quietly. The scowl that touched his face played with her emotions, and in part, Brion questioned whether or not she was bordering on prying as her knuckles whitened against the smooth contours of the jar. Biting her lip once more, the Lady Trevelyan reached out to him once more, being sure to express her intent to do so with a gentle call of his name, “Krem.” Coaxing him to take it, she drew a smile despite the clear displeasure that tore at his features. Why did he look at her so? What had happened to pull his guard. Pushing the container into his hand, and quickly retreating to where she had rested prior. “It’s a bit of a cure all salve, drawn from Embrium, Prophet’s Laurel, and Rashvine. It’s best suited to immediate skim damage, but it’s a likely candidate for alleviating past injuries.” Noticing the way, he pursed his lips as he studied the remedy quietly, she couldn’t help but notice the private guilt he seemed to done himself before his gaze shifted to her.

She did nothing to coax an answer, and in fact, Brion had to admit, his demeanor only added to the dubious report awaiting her arrival to Haven. The grimace Nightingale contained as she tucked the document into her breast for the matter being when the Lady Trevelyan had parted from Haven. The weight of her expectations as spymaster met with the disappointment of a leader that had fallen into her lap, a wayward individual with lack of resolve. The weight of the recounting of what the forces of the Inquisition’s spies had retrieved about the Tevinter born. Maker, she thought through clenched teeth, biting the harrowing frankness of reality… she did not want to imagine that the man before her was anything more than what he presented himself to be, a man of sincerity and valor. Though, she had to admit, the more time she spent with the man, the more inquiries she had gathered… although, she could not pass such curiosity on simply the enigma of the mercenary. No, as much as it pained her heart to admit it, Nightingale was correct. She had grown a fondness for the man, one that she dared not admit delved deeper than simply amorous. “Krem, thank you. I wouldn’t have survived if you hadn’t intervened.”

“Mmm,” his voice little more than a murmur. “Suppose Chief would’ve had me milking a post-partum wyvern while he made a drinking game of the encounter. Nasty temper on the damned things. Dunno why the nobles are fond of them.” There it was, glimpses of the warm humored mercenary peeking from the defensive wall he had erected.

Tucking a smile, the Inquisitor let out a laugh as she flopped once more to her back. “I would’ve liked to seen that.” Watching the stars above, she found herself grinning widely. While the idea of Krem risking his neck for a noble who had likely not experienced the Wyvern’s terrain, she had to admit, the leisure approach manner in which she suspected The Iron Bull would cope with the situation, likely betting wagers with the other Chargers. “My siblings were likely that, when we were kids.” She spat out, her memory going back to period she often over looked in her upbringing.

“You’ve a big family?”

“I- well, yes,” she whispered, reflecting on the olden days before she found herself an enchanter. Her memories pooling, and before she knew it, she was sharing. “Maeve and Eoin especially, so close in age and pursuing the same trade, they were prone to squabbles. Often competing over trivial things from target practice, to the stride of their dance. This one time, they became so engrossed in a musical feud, they had snapped all the strings from their lutes. One smacked our eldest brother Cathal in the face, and oh the look on our mother’s face,” she found herself chuckling at the faint memory. The redness of her older brother’s cheeks, “He was a man of about twenty back then, still finding himself in our family’s expectations. He was rather quick tempered back then, and as you might expect, the strike impacted his ego. My younger siblings and I heard his heated lecture from the court yard before he retired to lick his bruised self-image.”

“Younger siblings?”

She could feel the bit of surprise catching her features as her eyebrows raised. In part, Krem was the perfect listener, absorbing the drabble she was sponging from the depths of her memories, and in the other part, she found herself a bit surprised by his unfamiliarity with her origins. His sincerity easing the pools of anxiety in her stomach. After all, one would think that an infiltrator of the Inquisition would do their homework on their target if they were of any merit. “Yes, I suppose you could say we are a rather large family. There are six of us total: Cathal, Eoin, Meave, Tadhg, Emrys, and myself.” It was a faint standstill, the quiet of the night air as she found herself reaching up to the sky above. “The Trevelyans pride themselves on their dedication to the Maker and his bride, boosting the numbers of his followers, and providing the faithful from the protection of “robes”. Guided by faith, we are raised in her image, a child who does not find themselves worthy of the Templar Order, taking vows in Chantry’s monasteries.”

There was a distinct shuffle, a quiet movement of the creak of the makeshift seat before the quiet thud that found Krem on his back as he evaluated the star above at her side. The small hum of his voice, a rasp as he teetered on his conscientious manner, daring to ask her what she imagined must have encouraged him. “It was hard then, being a mage?” She craned her neck, only to discover that he was intern, staring back. A gentle flicker of compassion within the depths of hazel, the flicker of flame bringing out the golden flecks that threatened to drown her. The shy of green that encompassed the edge, remind herself to breath.

“It was a bit of a disappointment, I admit.” Forcing a laugh as she reached her hand up once more, wishing more than anything to reach the lights of the heavens. It was a habit she had developed as a child, a wayward tendency born of her time in the Ostwich Circle when her heart yearned for the petty disputes of her siblings. Of the days of failed sparing, and missed targets, stumbled recounting of the Chants of Lights, it was in that moment she found herself frown, no longer able to paint a false image. “I was rubbish at dueling anyways, and my target practice—was the worst my instructor had ever seen, and he tutored the late Seamus Dumar as a boy. Yet, if you can imagine, my siblings would readily volunteer to spar with me, then risk enduring my reciting of the Chant of Light. Bloody awful.” Her struggles seemed effortless to her siblings, coming naturally for each of them. In her eldest brother, and youngest, they thrived as warriors; to her knowledge, Emrys remained steadfast to his vows, much as Eoin and Maeve had done themselves. Both capable rogues, egged on by their sibling rivalry. As for Tadhg, he had always had a way with recounting the warmth of the Maker, having risen in ranks amongst the clerics of the Chantry. Each Trevelyan child devout in their followings of the teaching, and more so to the pride of the family. While Brion herself, found herself not only the family disappointment, but the very scourge of the Trevelyan name, welcomed home only on brief interludes that she suspected were preservation of the pride in the name itself. Less the other noble classes learn how she in frigid on her mother’s pride so.

“Can’t say I know much of the way nobles do things in the Free Marches, but you’re no disappointment.” It was warm soothing, and the recollection of his words struck him as hard as they had her as he pulled his gaze away from her. The faintest edge in his voice, “Gotta way with the staff and all.”

She cannot say when she had drifted off to slumber. The wane of the late hours giving way to the break of day, the morning peeking through the trees and reflecting upon the stillness of the stream nearby. The faintest hues of pinks painting the sky, the quiet shutter of wings as the early risen birds whistling their melodious songs that carried on the gentle breeze. Tossed to her side, the warmth of the fabric pulled across her shoulders as she peeked through quiet lashes. The day was everything she suspected of the Hinterlands, the quiet illustration of peace and harmony. A vibe of serenity that she longed to envelope, as the flush of her face tinged at her cheeks. A sheepish smile as she recounted the night she had spent with the Lieutenant. How willing she had been to share a past in which she often kept tucked away from view. The quality time she hadn’t realized she would hold dear to her heart, as the small question of how readily she had provided such information, or how the cleanse it had provided on her mind. It had been quite some time since the Inquisitor had thought of her family, and even longer it had been since she admitted she missed their company, the rare visitations that the fall of the Circle had robbed her of interactions with her family members. How had they fared in the wake of the conclave? Had Emrys returned home in the aftermath of the Mage Rebellion? Did Tadhg stand amongst the Chantry, drowning in mourning at the loss of the late Divine? Their mother always had an act for maintaining the social status of their clan, and for her, she had little concern… perhaps curious of the day Cathal may claim his rightful place as clan head. Had Maeve and Eion flourished in the chaos, as they so often ensued, and if so, she imagined they had likely dedicated themselves to repairing the fallen order in some manner of game. Yet, the biggest question rubbed at her insides… had they missed her as she missed them?

As her thoughts gained traction, the absence of her companion caught her by surprise, the lay of the grass marking where he once laid by next to her. A realization that both thrilled and shamed her, the joy giving rise to how perverted the sentiment meant to her. Her fingers traced the side quietly, “Krem?”

“AH, damned it all,” his voice cried, the thrill practically slapping him across the cheek. “H-hold on!”

The rustles of leaves as the branch in his hold trembled, practically vibrating with the shiver of his body. Vivid green leaves caught in his unruly hair that stood on edges as his shoulders arched, revealing the unexpected state she had awoken to. His tunic half hazard tossed on, wrinkled against his body revealing the slightest touch of his belly before his pants. The peak of a skin was enough, a smile forming as she found the salve, she had gifted him in his opposing hand, awkwardly tucked by his side. The faint of his cheeks, her eyes finding the freckles at his chin in the dim morning light, the touches of sleep still feathered on his features. “Oh, pardon. Please, I can wait,” she offered, taking delight at the not only this glimpse of Krem in the morning, a sight she envied the Chargers for having witnessed multiple times, but the lingering scent of medicine in the air, potent as her concoction had been. Krem had trusted her. With such a sensitive topic, and treatment as well. She was practically glowing as she turned herself quickly back to the waters, “I promise not to peek. I gave you my word after all,” the Lady Trevelyan teased as she covered her eyes in attempt to further assure him.

Brion could feel the power of his gaze at her back. The quiet way in which he evaluated her sincerity, her vows to leave his virtue in place—well at least for now. No, no she mustn’t think of such things at a time like this. The lieutenant was entrusting her, and such wandering thoughts were, well, less than honorable. He was quick, she had to admit, and whispered a bit of gratitude at the speed in which he righted himself, finding herself doubting her own reliability. Making good on the light of day, they quickly disassembled their makeshift campsite, readying themselves for the venture back to an Inquisition camp across the hills. The happiness yet to fade from her, as she seized the opportunity to gather blood lotus at the ponds. “Don’t fall in,” he prodded, the hint of laughter as he neared her. The dull of her blade snapping into her hand and drawing a small wince from her. In all of the excitement, she had neglected the scab forming within her palm. Swaying her bow to her back, her eyes surveyed the wound sight. No sign of infection, more of an irritant than anything. Her fingers digging in her knapsack for any makeshift gauze at her availability as Krem’s voice drew in her ear. “Here.” The Inquisitor watched quietly, the careful manner in which Krem retrieved a dagger form his boot, lacing the sharp edge through the bottom of his tunic. “This’ll do until we’ve found Stitches—not much for healing,” he admitted as his slightly larger hand encompassed hers, weaving torn linen around her balm, dodging her fingers in attempt to protect her scab from the environment. Drawing himself to his feet and stretching in the light of the day. “Best be getting on then.”

Yes, Krem had trusted her, and Brion suspected, she herself returned the sentiment.

Little had changed since her time away from Haven; the villagers still wary of her approach into their humble village. The murmurs of whispers as her staff swayed at her back. Skadi shifted, her ears flicking back and forth as Brion guided her into the makeshift horse stall, the whistle of the wind bending the branches they had used to forge such a stable. The wood of the age crying out desperately against the binds, Master Dennet’s clear distaste for the warhorse housing, not that Brion could blame him. A Master horseman often expected finer stables, and in this conjecture, the Inquisition had fallen short. Truthfully, Brion bore the guilt; if it were within their budget, she would provide the Fereldan Forder with a warm environment, one in which the cold would not nip at her coat so, and the matter of her food would receive greater quality. However, times being as they were, she owed a great deal to Haven, the victims left in the aftermath of the Conclave… Their bellies needed to be filled, and in housing the growing Inquisition, had lost a bit of food to the soldiers. Not much, Cullen would never hear to, nor would the remaining advisors, but to an already poverty-ridden area, it was enough to impact their winter supplies. Master Dennet hummed, and in the wake of her plummet off the waterfall, the matter of the Snipe Hunt remained unfulfilled for the time being. Chewing on her bottom lip, she dodged his gaze, unprepared to report to him prior to Lelianna, a slight over step on her part. Reliable as ever, he was always there to greet Skadi upon her arrival home, his calloused hands working their way through her main. Properly brushing out any debris that had been caught within the fine hairs. The deep set of his chocolate skin catching in the light, the vibrancy of age touching his beard and eyebrows white as the snow beneath their feet. He offered little interaction, short on formalities—the way she prefered interactions. More so gathered from past encounters, the Lady Trevelyan suspected she would not hear his voice, nor request of an update until he was satisfied with his work, guaranteeing the efforts of his prized warhorse’s efforts were not rewarded, sure to tend to her need prior to his or the Inquisitor’s own. This assumption was well met as he shuffled past her, quickly gathering her feed provided by his farms, humming an old Fereldan folksong she could not place as he dedicated himself to Skadi’s care.

Nearby, she could hear the deep voice of Harritt, his voice heard over deafening sound of iron meeting the forge. The distinct hiss of the molten metals touching the cold air as the blade cooled with a bit of tempering. His orders clear as he instructed those who found themselves under his care, crafting the finest weaponry and armor with the materials at hand, which Brion tiredly suspected needed replenishing. The red of his mustache as vibrant as the flames he manipulated. The sheen of his scalp sweating under the heat, a few of the villagers having wandered to the blacksmith’s tents in the desire to find a bit of refuge from Haven’s declining temperatures. The snow, she noted was the one of the only defining changes amongst the crumbling structures, the weight of it beginning to degenerate the weight bearing roofs. The Inquisitor let out a sigh at the realization, she would need to speak to Cullen about such matters, perhaps the soldiers could find it in their will powers—or rather under Cullen’s lead to tend to the necessary repairs. Rolling her shoulders, her hand finding the back of her neck as she evaluated her surroundings further, forming her mental checklist as she wandered her way to the spymaster’s quarters. The demands of those who depended upon her, an unexpected welcome from her personal burdens. She ran her fingers through Skadi’s mane one last time before setting herself on her path, offered a reserve shake of her head in response. The modest interaction between the two served the Inquisitor a bit of courage as she bid the might warhorse farewell.

Brion set her sight on the encampment of the soldiers under the Inquisition’s charge. The Commander passing to and fro in a way that suggested drills were not proceeding to his preference. The distinct furrow of his brow, his scars only aging his face further as he shouted further orders. “Irail, keep your shoulders in,” the results tiring his features. A hidden weight of his words, a past that nurtured the scars upon his face as he adjusted the young boy’s stance. Pulling his shield tighter, reflecting it up before nodding for the sparring partner to proceed.

“Templar,” Iron Bull stated, standing to her shoulder towering over her so. The Lady Trevelyan tensed despite the dispassionate tone in his voice. It was an observation, further evidence of his capabilities amongst the Hissrad, but the very word encouraged a bit of unease in her heart as she glanced at him. “Tilt of his shield and all. Not the best patience, but teaching your boy just fine.” The disinterest captivating, and yet the choice of words caused her own head tilt in curiosity. _My boy?_

Her eyes found the sparring, how Irail had grown in her absence. It had only bee a short few days, but she had noticed as time weaned on, a few days provided him enough time to grow, the resemblence of the young boy she had nurtured for so many years just slipping away. The bittersweet of the moment, the realization of how Cullen directed him. How eagerly Irail accepted the instruction. “An apostate will make quick work of you if you continue this.” In this statement, she knew there was depth as Cullen’s background as a templar. A faint past in which she imagined he had endured a bit of abuse, and wondered if he ever returned such slights, but more so, she could not deny the plummet of her shoulders as the look of pride filled his features. The lad had grown, and would continue to flourish under the Commander’s instruction, in this, Bull had been right. Yet, the Inquisitor could not help but wonder how such improvements may impact not only their interactions, but his relationships with the friends he had made in Haven, the young mage girl he hid a fondness for included.

“Now about that trebuchet,” a devilish grin caught her off guard. Bull’s eyebrow raised, gauging any potential reaction she may provide.

Brion could feel the heat of her cheeks, embarrassment or agitation at his allegation, reminded of the disant implication in which he had bartered Krem’s company in turn for borrowed one of the Inquisition’s trebuchets. “Bull, no,” Brion sighed, feeling the exhaustion seeping into her soul as she attempted to combat his claim.

There was a roll of his shoulders, the slight conclusion indifference at her results before the clamor of his mercenaries fluttered from the camps, having returned their belongings to the cots. Despite the cold, the Chargers remained in good spirits, elbowing past one another, the jovial mood inflicting a grin upon their Chief. Iron Bull on fondly as Grim lead the way to the Singing Maiden, stoic as ever. Well, she supposed, in truth, she had never heard the man speak before, and had to admit the curiosity of how his voice may sound. Close behind, Skinner trotted forward, her shoulders edged, the clear distinct edge as she wrinkled her nose. One hand on her thigh, with a sigh, Brion realized she may very well be prepared, if not encouraging yet another counter with the Red Jenny hired, who was known to frequent the tavern. Another sigh of exasperation, a burden pressing into her skull before Stitches offered a gentle reminder to the elven woman, much to her clear agitation. Perhaps the rumors of her had a bit of truth, but this could very well mean such things were put in motion by forces she, herself could not understand., the memory of city elves relieved of the alienage welcoming the Chantry halls was harrowing. A bit behind, Dalish looked worn down; her usual bright features dimmed, her eyes red at the lashes and her nose puffy. The Inquisitor recalled how the mage had nearly torn Krem apart upon their reunion, her rage influenced by affection. Through blonde hair, her face had started red, fuming at the seams as she tore into her lieutenant. Over half the language she spit out, clung to her Dalish origins, and what she spat out, Brion did not know. What words she spewed the Inquisitor did know, she did not dare repeat, but as the elven woman screamed, tears marked the edges of her eyes before she began sobbing, hugging her “bow” to her chest, as Skinner revealed an uncomfortable glance, awkwardly petting her hair.

Following close behind Dalish, Rocky had wrapped an arm around Krem’s neck, dragging the Tevinter man to his level as his thick fist found the man’s hair. Bent at the waste to meet the dwarf’s gaze, Rocky dug pressed knuckles into the lieutenant’s scalp, ruffling his hair as he let out a refuted cry. Krem’s fingers finding his arms as a clenched grin clear over the dwarf’s forearm. The scene causing a small chuckle from the Inquisitor. While she found herself in the Lieutenant’s debt, Brion grew even more aware of the bonds the Chargers possessed. They had not only welcomed their co-leader back happily, but had little doubt of his capabilities to return to their charge. Tucking a small smile, she could hear the usual arguments that Rocky ensued, still unwilling to release Krem. “TO KREM!” they each shouted before making their way into Haven, leaving a sting of cheer in the air as they carved a clear path to the Singing Maiden. At one point, the villagers had turned their noses up at the added noise, but as the band of mercenaries found their way, she noticed the small smiles of the natives. A quiet acceptance, and perhaps welcome of joy as they continued their daily tasks.

“Welcome to join, Boss.”

“You just want the trebuchet,” Brion sighed, equipping a quick smile as the Qunari waved his hand in parting.

In a way Haven hadn’t changed much in her leave, and yet, the Inquisitor could not deny in some ways, it had. Although she could not express what was the cause. Quartermaster Threnn remained boisterous, and often rubbed passerby in the wrong way. A trait Brion had grown to respect, there was something to be said of the Fereldan woman’s strict conviction to her beliefs, and often took it upon herself to right the human occupants upon their loose, hurtful term of “knife-ear” for the elves. Adan offered his complaints as well as a list of demands both supplies, ingredients, and details he expected righted. Such as his continued request for aide in his crafting, one which Brion was beginning to suspect was born of a fondness for the elven mage, Minaeve, whom she had yet to see upon her arrival. Not that she complained much, eversince one night of drinking in the Singing Maiden, the enchanter had gone to extensive lengths to avoid her. Offering only awkward pauses upon her distributing of creature items from time to time, and on one such occasion, Minaeve had even dove into a nearby snowdrift blessed with elfroot by the Chantry doors to avoid her. All unusual behavior Brion had attempted to investigate, only to receive a small tidbit from Flissa, who claimed in some way or another, Minaeve felt as though she had crossed into the Herald’s territory. What she spoke of—the Lady Trevelyan was clueless, but any attempts to clear misunderstandings only lead to further oddities. In her inability to run into Minaeve, included the Lady Josephine, whom Brion suspected of readying a lecture as she found herself finally standing before Nightingale’s tent.

“Remember, she can smell fear,” Varric teased from his usual perch by a fire, often shaking from the cold. Despite his wit and humor, he never openly admitted to freezing his ass off. Although, she wondered how long he could last with such stubbornness, chest hairs presented and all.

Yes, in some ways, Haven had changed, and in others it had not. Such as her qualms of the Lady Lelianna, as the Inquisitor stood before the tent, awkwardly shuffling her feet in the snow. Her mind unable to escape her pending decision, one that could impact not only the Inquisition, but her budding relationship friendship with Krem. The anxiety gnawing at her conscious, she prayed to Andraste for just a moment longer of peace, of indecisiveness in which she could relish the state of her affairs. Such desperate bartering would not be answered, again.

Within the tents, the distinct hum, the chant of light dancing across well versed lips as the pull of fabrics drew the tent open. Vivid red hair catching in the light of day, the sharp edge of her upturned eyes as she appraised the Inquisitor. Much like prey to a predator, Brion felt herself tremor before forcing her back to straighten in attempt to avoid revealing weakness. A silly notion as the Lady Lelianna had already shown an awareness of such traits, the pull of her thin lips into a smile. Brion had to admit, if she lacked familiarity of the woman before her, she would be enchanted. The prior bard excluded elegance in the manner she carried herself, the smolder of her gaze as she evaluated her to be victims. “You’ve returned.” Beckoning her forward with a curl of her pointer finger, the Lady Trevelyan questioned if there might be some magic laced in the gesture as she felt herself propelled forward. Blaming it on nerves, Brion gentle closed the tent behind her entrance, feeling the slam of her heart as the daylight concealed itself behind the sheet. “I assume you have made your decision,” a touch of warning barred in her bite as her cowl shuffled against her hair. Nightingale’s eyes narrowing under long lashes in which traced the nervous way in which the Herald of Andraste found herself staring at the ground beneath them. A stark contrast to the Ambassador Montiylet, the Lady Lelianna accepted her humble abode with little qualms. Perhaps proof of her time in the wilds, in hot pursuit of darkspawn and treaties alongside the Hero of Fereldan, stories she avoided sharing in the Inquisitor’s company… or perhaps, in the way she often denied requests of songs and stories, the rogue had left such fancies behind, reshaping herself in the Divine’s lost.

“I have,” Brion admitted, her voice sounding so much smaller, weaker than she intended.

The drawn of a suspecting eyebrow, Lelianna circled her. “And I suppose I must ask that you share such decisions with me?” How Brion longed for Josephine’s lectures. While hers had a tendency to elongate with the ambassador’s lingering temper, they lacked the ferocity, the predatory nature in which Lelianna conducted hers. Placing herself before the Inquisitor, she instructed, firm in her resolve, “out with it.”

“Lelianna,” Brion breathed in tightly, her eyes finding the way in which the spymaster undid the click of her outfit. Effortlessly retrieving the document, exposing the parchment to the air. Through passed fingers, Lelianna pressed the report into her hands. Noticing the length of her fingers, Brion stared down at the details. Unwilling to open the scroll before her, chewing uneasily on her lip before finding herself glancing at the Lady Nightingale. “D-did you find anything that could be a threat to the Inquisition?”

Untouched, cold as the glass of the wintered Chantry that loomed over the tent, Lelianna offered no expression. Well trained, and the edge revealing her lethality. “Nothing pressing, nor likely to impact our movement,” she confirmed, stale and unmoving. No, no the Inquisitor supposed there were no present details; the Lady Nightingale would not tolerate any potential threats to her cause. To the late Divine’s name. Her lungs felt tight, the smolder in which the spymaster hung on every movement, revealing her nervousness. Unable to escape her eyes, Brion crumbled. Her eyebrows furrowed as she fought back a tremble, before her lied everything she could ever wish to know of the man who had claimed her thoughts, and yet, the lull of her heart turned from her. Gripping the scroll on tight fingers, she could hear the crumble of the parchment, how easily it would be to unravel it, to distant herself from potential heart break. To no longer question the curl of his smile, or even, protect herself from it should all of their proceeding moments be nothing more than a lie. A lie. Could all of this have been a lie? The manner in which he had presented the Chargers at her ready, willing to please and welcome themselves into her folds. If so, where the other members aware of such intentions? The way he smiled, the way he called “Your worship,” in a voice that could stop her heart in its rhythm. The teasing way in which he interacted with her, the way Krem nurtured her needlework? His daring rescue, the trigger of unease in which his scars were nearly revealed to her sight? Through pressed eyes, she recalled how horrified he had been at their close courters, the jump of his body when he realized she had touched him, the sincerity in his voice when he accepted her aide in healing his shoulder. Yet, with a deep, sharp in hail of winter breath that burned at her lungs, the Lady Trevelyan could not dismiss the authenticity of his unease, as though he had been exposed in a way she could never quite understand, nor provide aide.

But she wanted to. She wanted to offer him any assistance, reassure him should his armor chip. Indulge the rare request, savor the mundane day-to-day activities. The Inquisitor could not hide the scowl forming on her face the Lady Nightingale pressed her for a response. Everything she felt, every murmur of a kindling flame, every skip of her heart, and the safety she perceived of a budding relation, albeit potentially one-sided was as real as the parchment that crunched beneath her thumb. In this, he had no blame to claim. She alone bore the depths of her affections, whether he returned them or not. The inhospitable environment bit at her finger tips, hung on her shoulders, whether from the opportunity at her fingertips, the unwelcoming weather Haven provided, but, most likely the deepening glower the spymaster inflicted upon her. “Lelianna, I’m sorry,” she sighed, forcing a smile on her face before turning her gaze from the woman. Chin tucked her shoulder, afraid to see the glare of the expert of the Orlesian game, Brion waited for the spymaster to accept the report from her. Unwilling to bear witness to the deep invasion of the privacy of the man, whom had trusted her in a moment of weakness. “I cannot accept this report.”

“Good.”

The response was much like a slap to the face. Sudden, unexpected, and leaving her not only stinging, but reeling from the confusion of a sudden strike. Eyes wide, head jerked, near cerulean gray eyes, the Herald of Andraste was unaware that the very eyes that could skewer without a moment pause, could gaze at her so gently. As though she had gazed at something fragile, the spymaster accepted the parchment willingly, a smile at the edge of her lips. The lightest shade of green touched in her eyes, and for a second, Brion wondered what bore on her mind. The distinct sound of parchment tearing underneath gloved fingers, the Lelianna offered merely a sigh. A gentle smile cusped on her delicate face, the Lady Trevelyan was stunned under her soft appraisal. “For the best. You care for the boy, do you not?”

“I, well—”

“Then you have made a wise decision.” It was a moment that Brion would remember a lifetime, a rarity that flashed before her eyes. Quickly remedied by an untouched expression, trained and tucking any evidence of the bard she had once been, the Lady Nightingale pursed her lips, flipping casually through various belongings. “We’ve all a past, man or woman. Such things do not matter, it is the decisions we make that define us.” A raised eyebrow as she evaluated a spare parchment. “Love cannot flourish when mistrust breeds parasites. Stop looking at me so,” she sighed, clearly agitated by the shock upon the Inquisitor’s face. “I will not provide you a song to explain this. If you cannot figure it out yourself, I shall suggest Krem turn his attention to Minaeve.” Even more curious, Brion tilted her head, the depth of the moment lost upon her as she could only tread water in the waves of confusion the spymaster hastily spat out. Uncomfortable? Was Lelianna uncomfortable? “You needn’t worry, aside from the individual who gathered the information, only I know of what was written. Neither party will reveal the Tevinter’s hand.”

“Lelianna, thank you.”

“Mm,” she sighed shooing her away, her eyes catching the Inquisitor as she drew the tent’s draping’s back. A knowing smile tugged on her face, “Oh, and Inquisitor?”

Paused, glancing over her shoulder, Brion could not ignore the mischievous tone as the spymaster grinned at her so. The familiar jump of unease under her gaze as she stammered, “Y-yes?”

“There is no such manner of beast as the Snipe—it is a rite of passage amongst the children of Fereldan. A fool’s errand.” She paused, savoring the shock of the woman before her before turning from the Herald of Andraste, recoiling once more into the shadows of her tent. The lull of her melodious voice echoing in Brion’s ears, “Do keep this in mind. I am not fond of Josie’s rants. It would be best I not find myself on the receiving end once more on your behalf.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty! Our key for those of you have opted out of this chapter (thank you for putting YOUR needs first!)  
> 1\. Krem has wounded his shoulder, and entrusted our Inquisitor to heal his would despite the chance she may see his binder.  
> 2\. Krem is clearly taking a leap of faith that our Inquisitor is decent enough to respect his privacy... SHE IS, as we all should be! Anything so personal is truly a deep trust that should NOT be taken advantage of, whether to cause harm, personal gain, none of it. It. is. not. okay. Please, respect one another always.  
> 3\. Lelianna "knows", not that there is anything to keep a secret per say, but every one is welcomed to their privacy. Everyone deserves to have these talks at their own pace, their own comfort, and in their own time, and I truly believe Lelianna RESPECTS this. Lelianna as we know her throughout the games (and reading for some of us!), her opinion of our Tevinter man would not change.  
> 4\. We did explore a bit of Brion Trevelyan's family background. As always, this is a noble born, human mage, and as such, she spent time in the circle. Most often than not, magic reveals itself in puberty, and from what we know of the large Trevelyan family, they are religious, their members often becoming members of the Chantry, or the Templar order. As such, Brion has a background in religious learnings and practices of the Andraste faith, but also attempt at archery and sword play (she stinks at all of these). Feels misplaced amongst her many siblings. In order of oldest to youngest, here is the family tree as I've crafted it (of course not cannon. what so ever, in fact, it's suspected the human-mage-inquisitor is in fact the oldest of their family.)  
> Cathal- 31 years old, swordsmen trained, and the heir to their line  
> Eoin- 30, rogue trained  
> Maeve- 29, rogue trained  
> Brion- 25ish  
> Tadhg- 21, rubbish with weapondry  
> Emrys- 21, sword trained, templar  
> There are a few things I've left to map out completely, so please, bare with me. I do feel that 25ish is an appropriate age group for the mage inquisitor, but as always, please, feel free to adjust the age as you read (the rough age gap between the siblings is the likely only age topic to come up). I'm a sucker for a the Templar/human/Inquisitor with Dorian, so don't be too surprised if you see Emrys's tale appearing in my works one day. I'm also a sucker for female mage with Cullen (drama, I like drama).
> 
> I think that about sums it up! As always, I hope you are taking care of yourselves!  
> Until next time,  
> Flowers


	11. Like Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gauntlets have been thrown. Seeking aide from the most unlikely source, Haven's tavern has grown tense in the Herald's absense. From a drunken brawl to a question of duty, the decision to recruit the Templars was a heavy decision, one that has impacted the Inquisition in unexpected ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all,  
> I hope this New Year has greeted you wonderfully--- if not, hang in there. You are doing an amazing job! I am proud of you, truly!  
> As with the last chapter, I will provide a warning for this one as well. This one has especially been heavy for me. While I enjoy depicting the glory of battle, the depths of relationships and their many folds, but moments like these, are always difficult. Yet, like most things in life, running away is not an option...   
> So, please be aware, this chapter contains mentions of drinking, instances of bullying, assault to one's character (slander), and an anti-LGBTQIA+ term which may be harmful to some readers. Nothing I would consider straying from PG-13, but as always, if you feel such dipictions could be harmful to you, please, follow your needs! Skip ahead to the paragraph beginning with, "A bloody fight, he had to seperate a bloody fight..." This will skip you pass any mentions of harmful terms. I am proud of you for putting your needs first. (the chapter I have directed you, I believe provides a wonderful summary of the instance :)  
> Please rest assured, this moment, and term are not thrown in half hazardly. I have put so much consideration and thought into this chapter, ensuring that this moment counts. With the fullest intent of adding depth to our character's developments, and their interactions.  
> As always, I wish you the best.  
> Until Next time,  
> Flower

News spread throughout the humble structures that made up Haven. The rumors passed as fluid as the chill of the breeze down Krem’s neck. The unforgiving forces of nature seized their opportunities when available, seeping through cracks. Gaps welcomed the cold indoors. Pressing his lips into a firm line, the mercenary had little to say of the tattered tavern he found himself frequenting of late, the only option at the Inquisition’s disposal. Its shabby interior offered little comforts aside from the mean drinker Krem had disinterred in the Inquisition’s elven rogue, Sera. A familiar, distorted face that took up residence between the two doors of the Singing Maiden, deeming any interaction with her unavoidable. Though between the waning hours of the day, before she’s had her third mug, he could squeeze in with little confrontation. Krem took great lengths to avoid her quick tongue, always holstered at the ready. Her temper did little to assist the growing tensions between Skinner and herself. Over his shoulder, he could hear the occasional bite of a remark as the archer hissed under her breath, a common occurrence he’d grown accustomed to. Perhaps even looked forward to hearing. Some of the comments she’d made opf the noble blooded recruits were entertaining enough. The groan of the crumbling roof above, the weight of the snow bearing upon its faulty composition. Its cries reminded him of a tavern of a farming village that had offered them a job a few years back, occupying little more than a handful of families and rice. He could practically taste the alcohol they had crafted from their bountiful harvest. The stuff burned, but Maker, did it knock the Chief on his arse. Though it took a bit of doing, the Chargers poured enough booze in him to accept the village’s payment- rice. It was a memory the Lieutenant wouldn’t soon forget, chuckling at the memory of The Iron Bull collapsed in a heap, reeking of liquor and sweat. How they had ever managed to drag his unconscious body out of the region, Krem couldn’t recall. Andraste’s tits, the boss had been pissed. Didn’t trust drinking with the men for some time. Rightfully earned, really.

Yet, nestled against the edge of a quickly aging barstool, the crepitate cry of worn wood strained under his weight as he did his best to navigate the near unbearable interaction Flissa had provided these days, no doubt the work of Rocky’s antics. Weaseling his way to cheaper drinks, Krem concluded was how he found himself on the brunt end of relentless pursuit from the barmaid. Her eyes flickering amongst the energy of the room, the torches fighting to remain despite the icy wind that caught their flame. The rise of voices being his only liberation from the tavern girl’s sharp gaze, beckoned away by arriving patrons. “If you’ve a mind for the ale, you might just try out the barkeep,” a coy hum as she shared a passing wink.

An elbow digging into the lieutenant’s side as Rocky gestured at the intention sway of Flissa’s hips, demanding attention. “Paragon Luster. That, lad, is worth a bit of coin,” he teased.

“Bit short to ride that ride, yeah?” Krem retorted with a crooked grin.

“Ain’t gonna give it a go, I wouldn’t mind climbing her.” His mustache catching the suds he swung form his mug before letting out a good nature laugh. He was in a jovial mood as were most of the Chargers, save for Skinner, whom found herself brooding at the corner of the makeshift bar. Her dark eyes glimmering a warning as the son screeched by an already befuddled Sera raked their ears. Dalish’s small hand worked at her consort’s shoulder blades, doing her best to coax the elven woman’s fingers from her daggers. Though Krem suspected there was little her counterpart could do to tear Skinner from her blades. The city born elf- harbored a tendency to seek comfort within the leather of the grip, her index finger stroking the pommel; if Krem thought himself a fool, he would suggest it was a nervous tick. One brought on by a rough upbringing in the alienage. Not that the warrior dared to cross such a threshold, lifting the mug to his lips. His eyes wandered, surveying his surroundings. Enjoying the noise, catching rumors that swept in with the soldiers, Krem found it difficult to hear over the camaraderie of the Chargers. Each member lost amongst their drink and tales of past jobs.

“Word’s that the Herald’s chosen the templars,”a dwarven recruit declared over his mug. His deep chestnut hair slick back, coated with muck; his clothes sullied by sweat and dirt. Having endured Commander Cullen’s latest drills, Krem wagered. Hearsay had grown amongst the ranks, the former templar’s training had intensified since the Inquisitor’s brief encounter with the Lord Seeker in Val Royeaux. An interlude that that latched itself upon the self-replenishing rumor the Inquisition’s growing forces provided, alongside such whispers of the elven mage Solas, Sera’s questionable allies, and curiousities surrounding the Warden, Blackwall.

“Good choice really,” another nodded with a shrug of his shoulders.

The wrinkle of a nose from another, “Surprising though. Didn’t suspect the mage would seek out the templars.” His voice was little more than a scoff, the scratch of age and exhaustion caught in his throat. His lgiht whiskers catching the light as he reached out his arm, his mug having run dry. The beckoning of Flissa, her smile tucked at the ready as she swayed to the table. Uninterested, the man offered a mere raise of his eyebrow, rejecting his coy please for attention. Quick to wave her away, he leaned into another soldier, aggressive in his movements. Clearly the dominant in their interactions.

“Alfhard,” the blonde sighed, the weariness clear on his features. A scar ran down his chin as he turned from the abrasive soldier at his side. Already aware of the pending rant.

The scorn was as clear as the ice that had formed on the shingles of the Singing Maiden. The very husk of his voice causing Krem to grip his mug, willing himself to stay still as his thoughts swam. The idea of Brion approaching the templars, would she do such a thing? She was prone to catching him off guard, he had to admit, but surely… she would have said something, yeah? The Chief too? Gritting his teeth, he could not bite back the unease that threatened his stomach, ate at his nerves. Approaching the templars would mean immediate opposition, the forsaken order of Andraste had more than demonstrated their opinions of mages. Whether the claim was factual, or gossip, the notion of the famed Herald of Andraste requesting aide from the templars would only stroke the fire forged by growing rumors amongst the classes, whispers of an entanglement between the Commander and the Inquisitor. Unable to deny the wrinkle of his nose, the Tevinter’s eyebrows furrowed as the ale encouraged the man’s ramblings. “It’s true. Damned apostates caused this mess.” Another swig of his drink, leaning forward on his forearm. Now glaring his companion down. “Likes to run around here, thinking it’s free. Don’t it? Can’t understand why the Commander allows it. Damned abomination.”

“Someone piss in your mug?” Rocky inquired, pausing his recounting of his recent failed attempt to woo a new target, Scout Harding. Poor lass. Hands paused mid wave, he could feel the eyes of the mercenary group caught on the lieutenant’s shoulders. Dalish tilting her head to better gauge Krem’s reaction; Skinner’s fingers catching the grip at the ready, finally give the opportunity to display her fowl temper.

“Bitch like that is only good for one thing,” the very claim that had driven Krem from his stool. His hands slammed the counter before him. The desperate groan of the timber beneath his gloves resonating within his bones. Flissa flinched from his reach, her eyes wide as she surveyed her tavern, concern growing across her features.

“Krem,” Stitches warned, standing at his side within a moment’s notice.

Yet, it was not enough to deter the Tevinter from wretching himself from the counter, his eyebrows drawn as he turned his attention to they very brute who dared to drag his employer’s name through the muck with the rest of them. The notion, the audacity. “Don’t talk about her like that.” He found himself hissing between clenched teeth, his hands pressed into the old planks that made up the wilting table, giving way to his weight. His armor weighed heavily against him, his shoulders tense.

The man whom had drawn his ire regained himself quickly enough. Very. Likely used to riling those around him, Krem suspected as a knowing, crude smile spread on the man’s thin lips. The gleam of his eyes as he leaned into Krem, unwilling to backtrack his prior statements. “Oh, if it ain’t the harlot’s newest toy. Come to drink with the men, have you? Best to learn to hold your liquor first, boy.” With their close proximities, Krem questioned whether the Commander had sanctioned personal hygiene in addition to his increased drills. Under clenched knuckles, the lieutenant could feel his temper flare, his teeth grinding.

“Take. It. Back.”

“Oh,” Smugness encompassed his features. Danced on the age of his face as he bared his teeth. “Whatcha gonna do about it, Lickspittle.” Krem could feel the tense of his breathing as he forced a sharp breath, neither man willing to back down from the challenge. A bully at best, Krem had known many throughout his life, and he didn’t intend to fold. Not before. Not now. Nose to nose, the stench of days old neglected hygiene searing the lieutenant’s nostrils. Sera’s cackling looming in the air as the pad of a palm met Krem’s shoulder, holding him in place.

Stitches sighed as he interjected in the tension, patting the lad’s shoulders as he forced a smile that failed to reach his eyes. The wrinkles on his face grim as he rolled his neck. “Easy on,” his deep voice resonated, remaining stable against the grain. His relaxed shoulders furthered his cause as the old Ferelden eased himself into the conversation. “Just trying to enjoy a drink here. Bosses have been ridden us all… Flissa, what say you bring another round here, and we forget about this, eh?”

Hustled at the uptake, Flissa bustled, jumping of her nerves as her skirts swung in her rush. In her haste to encourage the peace, ales in hand as she squeezed between the members of the Chargers. She provided a nervous smile. Trembling in her boots, a quiver Krem suspected was not the result of the cold. Her eyes racing between the men. It was then, his teeth found his lip, biting hard enough to draw blood as he did his best to submerge his anger. His fingers clenching as Stitches offered one more pat, encouraging him to let bygones be. Unwilling, Krem released the table, turning his back on the damn snollygoster.

“Garas atish’an, Falon,” Dalish coaxed. Whether towards himself, or to ease Skinner’s hold on her blade, he could not tell. Didn’t care, really.

It was the laugh, the croak of spite as he hissed out one final threat. “Abomination’s got the damn milksop bewitched, poor troon.”

The reaction was swift. The shatter of glass echoed through the tavern, fracturing the clamor. The pitch of Flissa’s scream ringing in Krem’s ears as he turned to discover Grim, broken bottle in hand. The blonde man offering only a shrug of his shoulders, unapologetic with his decision. The slump of the accuser as he released a groan, doubled over on the table. The soldier’s hand finding the back of his head as he managed to maintain consciousness, releasing a series of curses. All incomprehensible, possibly another language, or the symptom of a concussion. His companions drew their fist, one daring a swing at Stitches, who did little to hide his annoyance at the confrontation. The war veteran’s forearm blocking the blow as he stared the dwarf down. The groan of chairs scrapping at floor boards as they were thrown back, the once jovial atmosphere turned hostile in moments. The gall of one soldier attempting to grab Krem by the cuirass only acting as proof, the tavern had become a drunken arena. Lost in the sway of the flight, Krem heaved the man over his back, turning him on his ass. Rocky grabbed a chair. His small stature nearly lost in the scrimmage, the splinter of wood cracking as he managed his way through the crowd. Holding one soldier by the couter, bending the man’s arm behind his back, Krem detected Skinner, who had clambered her way atop the bar’s counter. The shatter of a glass hurled through the air, catching the wall in which Sera had contempt herself with her ale. The liquid splaying her blonde hair, drawing the renown drunkard to her feet as she jabbed a finger at Skinner on the bar. “PISS AND SHIT,” the archer bellowed, her face reddened from the bracer, no longer willing to be a mere spectator. Nose wrinkled as she challenged the duel bladed elf, who responded with only a quip of a grin before throwing herself into the fray, seeking out her nemesis amongst the rumpus. Having failed at her attempt to follow her counterpart, Dalish jabbed a bony elbow into a pressing warrior. The spat of having his stomach slammed etching a clear disapproval from the not-mage. Disgust lingered on her face as her vallaslin glimmered in sweat.

“Runnin’ from a fight, eh, Troonie?”

Jaw clenched, Krem turned, his eyes finding the very source of this damned mess staring back at him. The clench of his teeth, the soldier was clenched. The agitation radiating off his shoulders as he snapped his knuckles at the mercenary. Doing his best to display intimidation, the glass from Grim’s earlier assault flickering in the dull light. The man stood a head taller than himself, and easily out-weighed him. Evaluating his situation, Krem pushed the enlisted fighter he had pinned forward. The poor sap landing on his front, sacrificed to the swings between the two elven women as tangled, fists full of hair as Sera desperately tugged at Skinner’s hair, despite the headlock the rogue was caught in. Krem hadn’t expected the bastard to be fast, especially with his larger size. Impressive, Krem admitted, having caught the lieutenant by the cusp of his armor, falling short of his neck. His weight bearing down on the smaller man, the lieutenant stepped back under the load, catching the end of a chair. Stumbling backwards, his pursuer refused to release him from his hold, and the Tevinter dragged him forward with his fall. Catching the heel of his boot, the mercenary drove his foot into the man’s torso, lifting the mass over him in their tumble as the fought for dominance. The momentum providing leverage as Krem pressed his weight on the man. Fingers scratching at Krem’s face as he swung downward. It was only at the swing of the door, the bellow of a man accustomed to issuing orders, and the fingers that caught the nap of Krem’s armor before yanking him from the scurry, that Krem realized… things had gotten out of hand.

“WHAT is the meaning of this?” A pitch of Ferelden accent carried through the Singing Maiden. His scars aflame in the light, adding to the severity of a former templar. His annoyance festering as he held Krem in his hold, a feat the lieutenant had not expected from the Commander. The lines of his face reflecting a hidden pass, wrinkled with burdens. The shadow of unattended facial hair scraggly revealing his own personal neglect, a man driven by sheer will. The flash of his eyes, a hidden fire as he glared at his subordinates. Barking demands, he relented, “Private, explain.”

Shaken by the sudden address, the petite blonde man from before faltered beneath his fearsome leader. As though he had been slapped, the soldier tremored, the clatter of his armor failing his dignity as he managed only a few stutters under the Commander’s gaze, eliciting a scoff as he shifted his gaze amongst the crowd. “Maker’s breath, I’ve asked for men, and he sends me children.” His gauntlets now scathing Krem’s armor as the Tevinter man began to struggle under his hold, agitated by being manhandled. “Inquisition soldiers, report for your reprimanding effective immediately,” the growl settling the dust within the tavern. The quite looming as the candles flickered at their departure. The air heavy as Cullen released the lieutenant at the final soldier’s leave, the very man whom Krem had faced off.

Their eyes meeting as the soldier offered one final scathing comment, “Fucking troon.”

“You WILL hold your tongue,” Cullen spat, forcing himself into his underling’s space. The slightest twitch of the scar on his lip as he peered at him. The rage reflected on the soldier’s face, caught off guard by his commanding officer’s demand. The Chargers watched as the man folded, jerking his head in a huff. Slamming the door behind him as he went, leaving only the Commander, Flissa, the Chargers, and Sera. The howl of the wind outside beating against the shutters, seeping through cracks as the veteran templar drew in a sharp breath. His glare unsettling the elven archer as she made her quick escape, fleeing the scene of the crime. “I will speak of this to The Iron Bull upon his return.”

It was a warning, one that none of the Chargers had expected. Lieutenant Cremisius being the only one to ask, “Return? Where has the Chief gone?”

His patience clearly depleted, Cullen merely stated over his shoulder, “He has accompanied the Herald of Andraste to Therinfal Redoubt to assist in the recruitment of the Templars.”

A bloody fight, he had to separate a bloody fight amongst would be joined forces. Cullen flared, cradling his head. The pulse of a migraine making itself known as he collected his thoughts. Never had imagined he would find himself taking orders from a mage, the irony of the Inquisitor’s arrival revealing Andraste’s sense of humor. One, the Commander could admit he respected. Their former titles meant little to him now, and he wished the same for the Lady Trevelyan. Whether or not she returned the sentiment, he did not know, her manners having the better of her. Noble born in her etiquette, her gentle nature was refreshing amongst his ranks, a stark contrast not only to the gruff stent of his training men, but familiar in a way the Lady Montilyet had to shed. If she ever intended to do so, Cullen had his doubts. The cold grasp of wind catching his coat, the only relief from the chill that threatened his spine. His curls dancing amongst the snowflakes that had caught in his hair. He was a long way from home, from his family whom he had neglected to write… _Maker, Mia will have my head_ , he thought with a sigh. It was only a matter of time, really. His older sister had always had an act for tracking his movements, and his personal matters. The realization eliciting another groan as his hand found his forehead, shading his eyes from the dwindling light of day. He suspected a scolding was in order brought on by the absence of his letter, but should Mia caught on to the rumors circling the Inquisitor’s interactions with him, he shuddered to think of the future prodding his older sister would provide. Regardless of how little truth these claims contained, she would be relentless, and in the event, she accepted Cullen’s opinion on the fact, he could foresee his sister petitioning the Herald on his behalf. Their last exchange of letters revealing her readiness for him to claim a family for himself. Yes, best to put off sending a letter for the time being; keep her meddling at bay.

He breathed in a tight breath, his thoughts wondering as he found himself standing before the war table, his memories insisting upon his arrival amongst the tokens. Unsure of his thoughts, he often discovered himself here, fiddling with the pieces. It often provided the Commander with a sense of peace, well as much as he could muster given the Inquisition’s predicament. The stress of the situation at hand had weighed heavily on his mind, shackled to memories better left in Kirkwall. Yet, the pursued him, unrelenting, and in doing so, Rutherford was more than willing to fore fit the ruling on the choice between the ~~apostates~~ mages and the templars. Although as the Lady Trevelyan pursued a resolution, he had paused, unsure if the woman capable of delegating the future of Thedas versus her own conflicting background, which admittedly, he knew little of outside of the damn hearsay. Maker his soldiers were more like cackling hens then he’d like. From the ambassador, he knew of her familial ties to the Chantry and the Order, though the relations between a shunned family line like a mage in the Free Marches, he knew not the closeness of the mage’s bonds to her family. His brief station in Kirkwall provided him with doubts; he had witnessed many families torn apart by the emergency of magic—often voluntary. At the time, he considered such rash decisions justified, having endured the horrors of magic first hand. The man he is now, or at least learning to be, quavered at his prior dismissal, highly aware of the remaining callouses that remained in his heart.

Biting his lip, Cullen’s eyes evaluated the war table, each pawn at their own, the pieces revealing their decisions, and workings. The calls the mage had made, cautious and considerate. There had been a time or two in which he found her pouring herself over the table, evaluating every move. In this, they were a like, although she would often usher herself from the room at his arrival… Her wariness understandable, despite the conflicting emotion it brought him. Yet, she offered no rejection upon his request to formerly train her boy, Irail. Rather, she seemed to welcome Cullen’s intervention. At the time, he suspected it was the way of the world that had turned her opinion on the matter, but as time wavered, Cullen suspected the woman dared to trust him with her ward. The queen, carved delicately, it’s pearl white surface a mere glimmer within the dreary environment, one of which Cullen suspected the roof would leak in the summer should the snow begin to melt. Not that he suspected their cause would last into the summer months, or at least, he hoped not. Mia would find him by that time, a frown forming at the thought as his held the queen piece in his gaze. Nestled at the emblem of Therinfal Redoubt as the Inquisitor should be, he could feel his scowl growing. Uneasy, he had neglected to join her. Balked at the idea of the nobles Josephine had gathered under a unified banner, but most of all, weary of seeing his prior companions after he had forsaken the Order. Abandoned his duties to play commander. At least, this nothing more than an excuse, a self-proclaimed duty, Cullen had long since tasked himself to the gray area, no longer assigned between the black and white of the mage and templar interactions… The horrors of Kirkwall guiding him, he had found himself amongst the Inquisition, wishing nothing more than to right the wrongs of not only his former Knight Commander, but more so of himself. Of all the things he should have questioned sooner, neglecting his sacred vow to protect those under his charge.

Standing before the war table, eyes glued to the queen piece, he silently berated himself for sacrificing the Inquisitor, whom he could only imagine was having a tough go of it. Likely unwelcomed by those he once considered brothers in arms; he should have gone. Should have assisted her, suffered through the ranting of Abernache despite how tiresome he found it. Intent on staring down the pieces, whispering a prayer to the Maker above for a safe return, he was faintly aware of the door opening, a subordinate peeking in on him. “Sir?” Another deep breath as the Commander righted himself before facing the quivering man before him. Had his presence really deserved such a nervous response. The scuff of blonde hair, exhaustion painted in the private’s expression. Cullen recognized the fellow from the tavern, tangled in the mess of a brawl amongst children. Though the man that stood before him, the Commander questioned the likelihood of him being intentionally involved, or how it was this very individual had aligned himself of their forces in the first places. Safety in numbers? Possibly, rather the strait of his back suggested an increase in strength. Yes, he had seen this man playing his hand at swords, a wrong Cullen intended to right—this man was clearly not up to the task of bearing a claymore. No, the petite frame had crumbled under the weight, light on his feet. Rogue, Cullen concluded before rolling his shoulders, addressing him at last.

“Have we word of the Herald?”

A tremble of a shake, a nod if you could call it such.

“Very well,” his fingers working through various pawns at his disposal. His mind on the tavern as he drafted out the layout of the bar, the positions in which the brawlers had been in moments prior to coming to blows. The soldier behind him trembling as he peeked over the larger man’s shoulders. Cullen had never considered himself a large man, although upon reflection could see how he towered over the few. “Alfhard, caused this, did he not?”

“I-uh-well,” practically choking on his words, the soldier fought for a comprehendible sentence. Yes, Cullen would see that the man be switched to blades, maker he needed the change of pace. The confidence a well.

“I see,” Cullen heaved, searching his memories. The final insult the human had thrown at the Charger’s Lieutenant, Cremisius Aclassi. A good man, the former templar had concluded. Good humored, and from their brief interactions in training, unlikely to lose his temper. Younger than he, the mercenary was note-worthy, the way in which he carried his axe and commanded the field in his Chief’s absence. Alfhard on the other hand, had made quite the debacle of himself throughout their skirmishes. A sharp tongue, and quick to smear words, the man had only been with the Inquisition for a short time before coming to blows with another soldier, who refused his demands. Born of a low staple of the Fereldan classes, Cullen had noticed the blood lust in the man’s demeanor. Quick to search out his glory, claiming his nobility as a key to his success. A bully at best, Cullen concluded, nodding to himself. “Alfhard is to report immediately.”

Startled and wide eyed, “report?”

“Immediately,” Cullen repeated before finding himself amongst the tokens of the war table once more. The clatter of armor as the man rushed through the doors, his nerves revealing himself. Whether brought on by the notion of having faced the Commander at this time, or the idea of having to deliver the instruction to Alfhard, Cullen did not know. Rather, he did not care; it was necessary. The callouses of his hands revealing his familiarity with farm tools, the scaring in which Cullen knew from his upbringing in Honneleath. Farmer turned soldier, the potential interaction would likely form the foundation of budding confidence for them to grow upon later. More so, Cullen needed him under his charge. While jumpy, and uneasy, there was earnest within his eyes, a willingness to serve. Good men, that’s what he required not only under his care, but within his company. This, Kirkwall had taught him bitterly, all those who did not oblige to this were not welcome under his instruction. Men like Alfhard had no place under his command, least of all the Inquisition. The threat in which the soldier had addressed the Tevinter man in their parting weighed heavily on Cullen’s mind. _This, I will see to personally._


	12. Memories of a Maleficar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plunged into Envy's playground, lost and tormented by past memories, our Lady Trevelyan must face her inner demons. The blossoming unspeakable horrors committed by the Ostwick Circle, the mayhem that ensued. The bloodshed that stains her concious as she fights to remain sane amongst the visions of the past, the murder of her Senior Enchanter, Lydia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello All,  
> A common theme at this point, I suppose trigger warnings are to be expected from here on out as we delve into the darker aspects of Dragon Age Inquisition, and the horrors endured by the Inquisitior. Though such themes should be expected as by now, you've likely played the game (I hope! if not spoilers!!). However, the beauty of the Dragon Age franchise is that they allow the gore contents to be adjustable to the user, something I sadly cannot offer readers which is why I dutifully provide trigger warnings as some content may be triggering for some readers, if not upsetting.  
> Trigger: blood, violence, blood magic and it's darker practices  
> If this is too much for you, please avoid the italic writing as this is where the triggering scenes are depicted. Skip pass them, safe once more at the paragraph, "The Templars, Maker, the templars needed her..." this will skip you pass the vast majority of the gore.  
> As always, best wishes!  
> Until next time,  
> Flower

The screams shook her. The cries of desperation rattled her bones, wave of banners bearing the Order’s emblem stained in the blood of the faithful. The crumble of stones deteriorated beneath her boots, the caw of birds in the looming darkness. The fog rolled in, encompassing her thoughts tormenting her of past visions that eroded her exterior. Twisted creatures passing her by, unthreatened by her presence. Uninterested in any gain she may provide. The glow of torn rifts illuminating the mist in which she wandered. Lost, and confused as her left hand pulsed, reacting to hidden dangers of the fade. Tremoring under the sting, the Lady Trevelyan found herself alone, her companions absent from her side. The whisper of death in the air, tickling her neck as she dared a step forward, her eyes wandering the cobblestones. Nausea settled in her stomach, threatened her very existence. Scenes she yearned to forget, unfolding before her, her insides tearing at the seams as her breath caught. Horrified, panicked, the Inquisitor quivered at their hold. Their bonds unrelenting, clawing at her skin. Reaching through the past, gnawing at her flesh, desperate to remain. The cackle of a distant voice beckoning her forward, unveiling any secrets that it could grasp. How had she found herself here, face to face with a horrendous reflection of herself, knelt before her, grinning widely. The eyes misplaced as the smog claimed it’s features, save for the sickening grin upon its face. Lips up turned farther than humanly possible, teeth jagged as it craned its neck, inspecting her further. How had she found herself here, when only moments prior she was forcing a smile, managing her way through mundane discussions. A never-ending parade of dreary politics, how the Orleasians indulged in their concealed remarks. Doing her be to adjust to the silks, each adorned in their fineries. Each more elaborate than the next in line; how the masks left her unsettled, the intentions to conceal any ulterior motives. A shield against any onlookers, foreign to her as the Free Marches’ noble class were more abrasive in their dealings. Barbaric to the ten noble families that Ambassador Josephine had gathered under a unified banner, though the Lady Trevelyan suspected they delighted in her short responses, her etiquette falling short of their expectations. Laughable, she imagined… Never had she thought she would long for their company. Such tedious conversations would be a comfort, lost in the crumbles that once homed countless Templars. Therinfal Redoubt a mere shadow if its former glory. Forsaken and scorned, it welcomed the corruption that spread within its walls, a sickness. Perhaps, it was the abandoned valor which sought out the demonic presence, desiring company after many years of neglect. No, her time in the Circle was not for not; Brion knew better. Where hope once resided had been lost, how demons savor the despair. Seizing their opportunities, the desperation of the fallen order merely provided a delicious sacrifice. A host in which it’s infection to fester. The Circle, oh maker she should have never thought of her former home in such an environment.

The passing thought lulling an uneasy lullaby, it’s distant memory beckoning passing demons forward, her mirror image’s grin somehow growing at the mention of secrets.

_Screams, clawing. Desperation fed amongst the circle mages. The news of Kirkwall having reached their lessons, the stir of murmurs of fear clashing with the faithful. Senior Enchanter offering a gentle smile as she often did at a student’s failed conjuring. Her now gray hair had faded with age, there was time Brion could recall from her youth in which the older mage’s hair was vibrant, raven color. Now lost to time, the grays were woven into a tight up do, a common occurrence amongst the elder enchanters. The older woman’s soft skin joined her locks, wrinkles revealing a lifetime the young Trevelyan would never truly know. The shade of her skin never faltering, a lovely shade that reminded her of the gingerbread biscuits the young mages would receive during the yule tide. Lifting her head, remaining true to her conviction, Senior Enchanter Lydia raised her hands, hushing the sway of her young students. Her collar buttoned to her neck as her robes lingered on the floor, still as she maintained order amongst the swaying ranks. At her side, loyal to a fault, Brion awaited her declaration. Ever faithful, newly indicted to Enchanter a mere few weeks prior, she had longed for this position for many years. Her fingers intertwined as she did the best to ensure a posture, weary of any behavior that would be embarrassing to her mentor. “Hush little ones,” Her words soothing as the warmth of blankets on the first snowfall. “In times of crisis, we must remain calm, lest we forget our vows to the Maker. Andraste has not forsaken you.”_

_“Senior Enchanter Lydia,” a fellow enchanter raised his voice. His bowl cut revealing his nervous face as he addressed his superior. “You have heard, have you not? The Circles are falling, the Templars have gone mad.”_

_It was a warm smile, a sincere display of affection as Lydia nodded. Gentle as her eyes met the worried man’s. “As we have all heard. The acts within Kirkwall have strained the relationships between the Order and their wards.” Slow, and sure, just as Brion had always remembered. The Senior Enchanter never quick to temper, even when she had caught the drapes of the chambel, searing the very tapestries that depicted Andraste’s love. Esmee Trevelyan, her mother had a choice word or two in her letters, but not Lydia. Her teacher soothed the lines of the draping, a calm smile as she dusted the soot from the weaving. Half of the banner was diminished, a great lost to the Ostwick Circle, and yet, the enchantress praised the young mage’s dedication to her practices, reminding her once more that her gift, while beautiful could also be harmful. Lest she forget her duty to others, as Lydia demonstrated now in their hour of need. The young students watching with wary eyes, children revealed to horrors when they deserved fairytales. Brion would include one in her lecture this evening, she decided, always fond of spending her time with the younger pupils. The budding enchanter could hear little of the reassurance her higher up provided for the concerned mass before them, distracted by Irail, who’s eyebrows furrowed. Intent as he squinted, an attempt to better see the address, perhaps? No… something in the way he held himself, confused. Shaken amongst the children. A boy without the gift, it would be understandable for him to be uneasy, trapped in a Circle in which he could not flourish. The manner of his birth anchoring him to the location until he proved himself lacking in talent; the Templars unable to release him until such proofs were readily available, likely marked by his entry into manhood. Yet, this wasn’t it… she had seen that wayward look so many times, never had it been marred by fear as he was now. His eyes wide, trembling in his boots, frozen to the spot._

_Eyebrows drawn, the desire to protect her ward festering within her. The threat of imminent danger triggering her senses, calling her to action. Following Irail’s fixated gaze, Brion found herself peering at her counterpart, located at Lydia’s left, the opposite of the Lady Trevelyan, who stood faithfully at her right. Merek, an enchanter whom Brion had been raised alongside. A few years her senior, he had joined the enchanter ranks far sooner than herself merely by age. In their upbringing, there was little doubt amongst the mages of his neglectful study habits. Known to idle, Merek was renown amongst the prior enchanters for his lazy habits, and quick temper. Quick to blame his circumstances rather dedicate himself to his lessons, it had been a hushed whisper amongst the ranks, the conclusion he had only forged his way to the enchanter title by age alone. Though, there were rumors he had a way with certain enchantments, none Brion had seen personally, but knew from the scoldings Lydai often provided in their youth, she disapproved. Their relationship often turbulent, but their mentor remained ever gentle, clear in her hope he would join her side one day. His chocolate hair well groomed, standing taller than the Senior Enchanter. The point of his jaw reminded Brion of the giggles of their classmates, the girls and occasional boy enamored with his appearance. His diamond shaped face known to draw the occasional devotee, if it were not for his temperament, Brion suspected he would find himself amongst the higher rankings of the Circle, perhaps even in the Empress’ court. His gray eyes honed in on their enchanter, an unreadable expression as his eyes glimmered with intent. Like a predator, Brion could not deny the sickening qualm of her stomach, her heart plummeting at the predacious sight. Her voice caught in her throat, lost as the Lady Trevelyan’s gaze scanned the room. Doubts of her own vision providing her a surplus of anxiety, had anyone seen such a menacing glare? Had she imagined it? Though the crowd of mages offered no reassurance, each member aside from Irail and herself emerged in Lydia’s voice._

_“We shall remain at the Order’s side. Our guardians have never intended us harm; to doubt them now—” Lydia’s smile faltered. Crumbling as she fought back a sob, her eyes wide, staggering to her side. Brion narrowly missing her fall, her arms wrapped around the older woman in confusion as she held her to her feet. The screams of children erupting her ear drums as Brion found herself lost in the confusion. The children surging throughout the room, older enchanters aghast and horrified at the sight of Senior Enchanter Lydia, clinging to her side. The uproar shattering any peace that may remain within the Circle as blood puddled at the elder woman’s side. The staunch of iron seeping between aged fingers, grasping between her ribs as her gray hair tussled out of its hairstyle. Her breathing fading quickly, inaudible amongst the chaos that ensued the tower, the desperate attempts to flee as daggers were drawn amongst the mayhem. Her mentor’s weight baring on her, staining her robes as she tumbled to her knees. A desperate hold on her teacher, as she fought to comprehend the situation, she had plummeted in. Dazed, confused, the young enchanter was reeling, the stench of death searing her nostrils. Gnawing at her existence as all certainty was torn away. Her students, she thought desperately, they needed her. Maker what was happening? Lydia needed her… IRAIL, where had the boy gone? The panic ensued within her body, struggling to breathe. Tucked in her little corner of the world, Brion had little exposure to such gore, unprepared for the dire conditions that swept through the Circle._

_In her struggle, Brion jerked her head forward, snapping her head to face the murderer dead on. Merek standing before her, a dagger held at a point, meeting her gaze. It’s sharp edge nicking her bangs as she gawked at her classmate. How? “Y-you,” she stammered. Horrified at the realization, the blood dripping from the blade puddled on her skirts. “H-how—why?”_

_“Ha, you’re surprised little one?” Merek scoffed, entertained at the state of his counterpart on bent knees, clutching a lifeless body into her breast. “Really darling, I should think this no surprise.” His smile crooked, washing her of the memories of the young lad who fell asleep in his scrolls, a bit of drool down his cheek. Gone was the boy who gathered Orichalcum, wishing to craft jewelry from the shiny metal. Where had he gone? Brion could not guess as she felt the dagger pressed to her breast, the man standing before her a stranger amongst the havoc. Shaken, her mouth dropped. “I would think it’s long overdue, do you not? How many years must I deal with the bat’s badgering, thinking herself better than us? I’ve tired of her disapproval, you know dear. It might surprise you, but not all of us were blessed by family lines, nor lucky to have caught the hag’s attention. I’ve enough of her disapproval, my talents are as they are. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of.”_

_“T-talents?”_

_There was the smile she had known, corrupted with malicious intent. “In every rumor, there’s a bit of truth, little lamb.” Pressing the dagger forward, the tear of her robes against the pressing point, know knelt before her. Eye to eye, savoring the infliction upon her face. “No longer shall I endure shame; I am favored in the forbidden arts. Now is the time, Brion. Can’t you see, it is our time now. We may reign.”_

_“M-maleficar,” Brion whispered._

_The very mention of the word drawing his ire as he pressed his blade forward, “Now is no time for insults, my dear. You’ve options now, talented as you are. The Mage Rebellion would welcome us, would they not? Why not seize this opportunity—live as you always liked? No longer the family dirty secret, you could claim the title.” Rantings of a mad men, she thought in horror. Her eyes straying from his gaze. His ravings falling on desperate ears, followers gathering amongst the fallen circle. Senior Enchanter Lydia’s numbers decreasing as their sorrows wept blood. “Or you may die along with the old ways,” his voice hissed. His free hand marking a line across his neck. An instruction a follower pursued, grabbing a young mage by her cowl. Her scream shaking the last of Brion’s foundation as a sacrificial blade sliced through her main artery, eliciting a carnage amongst the once unified mages. Turned against one another, fighting for survival. Those who fell under Merek’s instructions, and those faithful who clung to the verses of Light, The Ostwick Circle a battle ground divided. The Lady Trevelyan’s stomach lurched, doubling over as vomit spewed from her lips. It was too much, all of it, desiring nothing more than to wake from this nightmare. Scoffing at her pathetic display, Merek’s patience wore thin. Agitated as he dropped an eyebrow, his nose curling in disgust. His steel gray eyes surveying the mess he crafted, a telling grin forming as he twisted his free hands willingly. The bend of knuckles, and crack of blood bending to his will. It’s draw locating Irail amongst the carnage, lurching him forward with a scream of a boy not yet of age. Her heart seared, tears burning her eyes at the sight. Tangled in blood, Merek manipulated the boy to his whims, his blonde hair stained a deep crimson, reeking of untold horrors. His screams, tears marring his soft face. The boy she had tended to since a tot, hushing his lonely cries in the night. Rocking him to sleep a method she had seen her nanny employ a time or two with her younger brothers. Guiding him through the circle, sneaking him sweet rolls, nurturing a boy she was far too young to properly care for. The promise she forged with Senior Enchanter Lydia upon his arrival to the Circle. Irail._

_Steel striking steel trembled the room, ushering a shudder from the bloodshed. Torn their distractions, the sounds of armor pressing forward, advancing their position. The thundering of the blocked inner room stormed at last, a suffrage to those who remained faithful, cast into this chaos of blood magic and madness._

_The Templars_ — _The Templars, Maker,_ the Templars needed her, the word reviving her from her strife. Calling her to action, urging her forward. Brion swung her arms wildly at the pretender, generating a fireball between her fingers as she pressed the flame into the gut of her mirror image. Gritting her teeth, reminded of those waiting for return to Haven. Irail, determined to make a name for himself. Flora, blissfully aware of the boy’s affections. The companions she had gathered along her journey, who looked to her as Andraste’s champion. Whether they had their doubts or not, they remained at her side. They had seen her through so much in their short time together… Her budding friendship amongst the Inquisition’s leaders was as real as the scorch of the fire within her palm. Krem… Maker, Krem was waiting for her, and all that could be, a life together? Friendship? Perhaps even a brief interlude, whatever he could give her, would give her.

“NO, I WILL know you,” a voice shrieked as the image she plunged into dissipated between her fingers. A new found rage course through her, determination as she dared a step forward.

“I am the Herald of Andraste. So long as there is breath in my lungs, life in my body, I will NOT surrender.”

“That is good. You are pure. You are right. A light. A beacon in the dark, too bright, come, come.”


	13. Here Is Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the combined efforts of the Templar Order, the Inquisition seals the Breach. A moment of peace, of joy, the festivities of the night will not be forgotten. Not the way he looked at her, nor the way she leaned into his touch, but most of all, the survivors of Haven will never forget the final hours of peace.

Crumbling structures, torn apart from time, and the poverty of those unable to tend to their needs. The hiss of a wintered wind sweeping through its snug abode, grazing the sides of aged buildings. The bearing of hooves against the fresh fallen snow, the crunch beneath their weight as they padded forward on unsure footing. Whispers dispersing between the ranks, all lost amongst the agreements of their forged contract. The clamor of armor, chainmail scrapping against breastplates. Banners drifting in the wind, cuisses pulled against strained muscles. Weariness through each knights’ bones, few dared to complain of their travels. Unwilling to utter a word, most were far too stunned by their circumstances. Stricken by the days prior in which the Order stood against their own, dredged in the blood of their fallen brethren; their instructors submissive to Envy’s demands. Tainted by red lyrium, the horrors of the hour would not so easily escape those who bore witness to such monstrosities, least of all the younger recruits. All of whom now stood disturbed, pieced together on wavering vows. Descending into proper lines behind their guiding lieutenants, the only remainder of officials amongst their class. Grateful their tutors had survived their horrors of Therinfal Redoubt. While few in numbers to offer complaints, far rarer were those willing to speak to the Inquisitor, the would-be rescuer, suspected imprisoner. Ostracized, the Lady Trevelyan had suspected the palisade, though she had expected such to emerge due to her status as an apostate. Never could she have foreseen the treachery of the depraved state of the Order, the depths of their sullied names. None of her advisors could, Andraste’s finest bathed in blasphemy. Perhaps, their distance was longer forged on the concern of the threat she could impose as a potential host, an abomination for the hungry. Feasibly, the very champions of faith sacrificed by their own, Brion felt assured by her own burdens, those who had survived the slaughter likely felt soiled, forsaken, and left to rot in the shadow of the Maker’s light. Their existence, their survival hanging on the edge of uncertainty, by the whim of one, an apostate no less. Trained to prosecute the evils indulged by the very essence of magic, never would she had wagered their silence was brought on by shame. It was understandable, how could they raise hope in such conditions? Yet, where else could they have turned? Those still willing to serve cast themselves at Sir Delrin Barris’s feet, a knight of the Templar Order. An unsuspecting leader no less, Sir Barris rose to the challenge, unyielding to the Herald of Andraste; his humbled bravado impressive, Brion had to admit. Grand in his convictions, he alone was the only one amongst the ranks to discuss the terms of their agreement. In truth, while his conversation dared lean on the blunt side, he was direct, and by this time, the Lady Trevelyan welcomed the bits of conversation he offered when willing.

The near approach of their destination looming in the distance, her breath caught in her throat. The expectations of those within its shambled structures, displayed unexpected cheer at their arrival. The calls of the faithful rekindled, the spirit of the Order enough to lift them from their despair. Their joy providing a bittersweet smile, if only they knew. Perhaps, it was best for them to remain blissfully unaware. Blinded to the betrayal of those bathed in blood, Andraste’s faithful able to see only the valor of bedtime tales. Upon their arrival, she could hear the murmurs break out through the ranks, weary and dreadful. Each recoiled within themselves, sickened at the thought of welcome, believing themselves unworthy of acceptance. Uncomfortable and dreadful, the grit of her teeth as she appraised the knit in Sir Barris’s brow as his shoulders drooped. How she hated to see the quiet desperation cover his face, blanketed. Unable to place into words the burdens the Order would bear, desperate to redeem themselves for sins they themselves had not committed. Trial, and jury, the survivors—rather the victims would stand trial for acts elicited by their superior officers. “I have long since wished to meet the famed Lieutenant Knight-Commander, Cullen… Now,” it was a sigh. A mere rasp as Barris lost the words, the will to place fabricate his dread into speech. She could not blame him. By now, letters had reached the Inquisition, depicting not only what the Lady Trevelyan was willing to share of her time under Envy’s torture, but the atrocities perpetrated by the Order he once called home. The brothers-in-arms he held in high regards. How forlorn the Commander likely suffered, pacing back and forth, awaiting their arrival.

“Well… shit,” Varric sighed, the touch of his chest hair peeking out of elaborate trimmings.

The exhaustion seized The Iron Bull off his guard, a large eye widened as his horns reflected in the dim sunlight. The cold air nipping at his skin, goosebumps at his flesh. How much longer he would endure the cold in his harness, Brion could not have guessed; she had long since lost the wager amongst her companions. Varric being the only likely candidate to earn the coin, his bet placed on the Chargers’ entire stay in Haven. Or to be precise, the duration of their contract with the Inquisition. The Qunari’s shoulders arched, “No comeback?” Shocked at the notion, turning to stare at the her. His chin sharp, “Boss, the dwarf broke.”

“Who? Me? My editor would sooner consult a necromancer than allow it,” The scoff in his voice, forcing not only the Inquisitor to meet his gaze, but the templar who stood at her side as well. A small clench of teeth, the rare display of discomfort, “Ah, bad timing.”

“If you are not here for your tongue, why ARE you here, Varric?” The lull of her thick accept, as sharp as any blade. Lethal as the glare she offered the rogue. His stature significantly shorter than her own, her discontent radiated through her armor. Annoyed by the disturbance of the quiet, the Lady Seeker enjoyed the calm, or perhaps, found it’s silence more comforting than Varric’s need to fill the air.

There it was, the hum of life the Inquisitor craved as Varric drew his large hand to his chest. An exhibition of false hurt as he stared at the accuser. “That’s hurtful, Seeker.” Now taunted, the Nevarran warrior rolled her eyes, the small touch of a smile edging at her thin lips. Tugging at her scars as it drew, a relief to the Lady Trevelyan. A sense of normalcy, the first encounter since she had found herself emerged in Envy’s playground. Her honey eyes finding the eerie glow of the sky above, fractured amongst the clouds. The fate of the word bearing upon her shoulders, yet, with her companions and the Order—no matter how damaged, called to action. It’s once horrifying glimmer of the fade seeping through the cracks, the demons of which fell from its depths, no longer drew her discomfort. The breach in all of its horrors would soon be a thing of the past, erased from the existence of Thedas as Andraste, herself willed it.

Pain coursed through her body, seeped out from her magical reserves. Her stamina draining as it carved a path to her palm. Wreathing as she managed to stand before Haven. The distant sound of cheer, and lutes as its occupants found themselves merry for the first time, dare Brion assume, their existence. The sealing of the Breach had torn at her features. Having drawn incantation from her essence, the encounter left her exhausted, and satisfied as she watched Haven’s occupants delighting in the Inquisition’s success. The gradual use of the mark cast at her hand had grown. Maybe she was growing a talent for it, though unlikely, all the Inquisitor knew as she watched the festivities was that with each use, the mark drew less and less of her. Her eyes tracing the smiles on each face. Adan partaking in ale, joyful as he slapped at his knee, following the hum of the music that encompassed the campsite. Threnn enveloping the Orleasian noble Brion found herself unfamiliar with, yet, they still danced despite any prior disputes that the Quarter Master likely instigated. As she was often known to do, regardless, the Orleasian woman delighted in their movements. Her smile crinkled under the rare reveal of her mask. Mineave glowed, having cast away her elusive cocoon as she basked in the sway of Seggrit’s lead. Stripped of his usual cut-throat business demeanor, he indulged her playful motions, tossing her every which way she desired. Never had the Inquisitor imagined the two enjoying the other’s company, attributed to the bitter remarks the merchant was known to hiss of the “knife-ears”, the thought giving the Inquisitor a grin as she cossetted her left arm, painful aware of its pulse. Tender with each movement, the pull of aching muscles, the festivities the only reason she had yet to retire to her chambers—or well, what had been her chambers. Such things were likely due to a change after all… Change, the word clenched her chest, stirring uncertainty. Her eyes finding the Chargers amongst the joy. Indulging in ale, mugs clashed against each other as they sang a variety of foreign songs, their off-key joy would shame any bard. A small chuckle, Lelianna excused herself quickly from the merriment, unwilling to have her name tied to such an atrocity of a performance. Skinner with her ears plugged, a troubled smirk plastered on her face as she did her best to encourage Dalish’s sway, her dance beckoning her partner forward. Weaving her nimble body so, the not-mage enticed the crowd in a way Brion could only conclude was a dance born of her people, the Dalish. Beautiful as the forces of nature as she carried herself forward, her urging falling on deaf ears. That is, until Rocky shoved the dark-haired woman forward, his drink having dulled his sense of danger. Sharp eyes peering at the dwarf before being enveloped in the playful spirit in her partner, her hands claimed by Dalish as she swept her through the crowd. Suppressing a chuckle, their singing reminded the Inquisitor more of yelling than a song as Krem delighted in his companions. Leaning forward, bellowing a laugh before a hand found his back; Stitches having ushered the boy forward, waving him on. His crooked smile as he rolled his head. Grim quipping a smile, as he brought forth a sash, from where it had appeared Brion could not imagine, rogues and their tricks. The fabric’s bright lavish color drawing her eye, a brightened amethyst. Subtle, the color drew its depths reminding Brion of the magenta lilacs kept by the Ostwick Circle. Though the self-deprecating laugh did not escape her, Krem submitted to the requests of his friends, tying it at his hip with practiced hands. Curious as she tilted her head, the Lieutenant tapped his feet so, one arm above his head, the other bent at his waste as his movements became fluid. Lost in the music, guided by past memories. Delicate and unbound, different than his elven companion, bearing on an unspoken tradition. His hand occasionally tucking at his back as his hips swayed, chuckling as he flicked his wrists. Unfamiliar, and far more intricate than any dance she had ever known, yet, Brion could not deny the smile that betrayed her, revealing her all too well to the Seeker, whose eyes remained on the Inquisitor.

“Words of your heroism has spread,” Cassandra offered, her hands pressed into one another as she watched the mage, a small touch of a smirk forming. Tender, or rather affectionate, her knowing gaze once more hid the past the Lady Trevelyan never dared to inquire, though her heart longed to know the troubles her friend sheltered. “—a victory of alliance, one of few in recent memories. With the breach closed, that alliance will require a new goal.” Deep set, upturned brown eyes, catlike as they peered at the Herald. Before once more appraising the Chargers in their humored moods, the manner in which the Lieutenant mercenary swayed. “A traditional dance,” Cassandra stated. “The Tevinters do love their traditions, it must make the Lieutenant uncomfortable to perform without a partner.”

Teasing? Was the lady seeker in fact teasing her? How much had Varric’s influenced their blunt companion? Her eyes widened at the prodding; her cheeks blushed in the winter wind. The temperature, she prayed keeping her secret. As the warrior nudged, ever lacking intact. “Partner?”

“Of course, such is their customs,” Cassandra further affirmed. Her braid pinned tightly to her cropped hair, near unaffected by the wind with its length. Her armor chilled in the snow as the Nevarran woman peered down at the scene once more. “It is not something I am overtly familiar with, but if memory serves, it is often the slaves who perform dances at the requests of their masters. Occasionally, the Soporati learn, a display of triumph.” Lips pursed, her thoughts focused on prior teaching, coltish. “Should memory serve, it is quite the insult for a man to dance alone.” Rocky belting out the ballad of a Paragon she had never heard, drunken already when Krem threw his head back, laughter spilling from his lips. Content in the merriment as drew the sash from his waste, snapping his wrist playfully. Guided by memory, much like the Seeker. Seemingly a lifetime ago, Cassandra breathed in the chill, a huff of air visible only due to the temperature as her cheeks warmed, her imagination having escaped her. “I’ve no talent for these things, but you have been taught, yes?”

“I- yes of course.”

Pink eared, Brion could feel the blush at her cheeks, but to whom the true embarrassment belonged to, the Seeker or herself, she could not conclude as the warrior bristled, much like a defensive quillback. “Stop gawking so, on with you,” she hissed, turning her face from her. The reveal of tinted ears as she scoffed. No talent, she had set; it was no secret amongst the Inquisition how Cassandra lacked tactic, her political weakness Vivienne claimed. Disappointing to the enchanter, her callous nature drawing an excited grin from the Lady Trevelyan, nudged forward.

Ushered forward, her blonde curls catching in the wind as her pants clung to her legs, a faint reminder of her inappropriate dress for such occasions. How her mother would scoff should she ever know, yet, the Trevelyan did not falter as she plunged from the ledge. “Thank you, Cassandra.” Her joy brimming as she landed amongst the festivities. Her courage daring her through the crowd, weaving past Mineave who bumped the Inquisitor awkwardly. Offering a brisk apology as the Inquisitor disappeared through the throng, shouldered by Threnn as she managed her way through the gathering. The music wavering between bodies as the campfire brimmed the warmth and scent of smoke. Comfort, and security, the cheer of ale, the press of merriment brought under one banner. No longer simply residents of Haven, mercenary, mage, nor templar able to shed their titles and positions for the time being. Yet, there he was, mid tuck of an arm, his fingertips reaching for the night air. The stars above greeting, delighting in his foreign dance. The enticing fabric alluring, without realizing her boldness, Brion snatched the fabric. Greedy in her desire to near him, her cheeks pressed by a templar’s shoulder as she squeezed through. Lacings tangled between her fingers as he drew her forward.

The shock of her embrace, unexpected from the crowd as she tugged the edge of the shawl. A pleasant surprise that drew the corners of his lips. Could his gaze have brightened at her appearance? How she longed for it to be true as she rolled into the fabric, tangled in its embrace. Her nose drawing near, catching the hazel of his eyes. The blush of the wind, as he stuttered, “Y-your worship.” Oh, how his voice could extract such emotions from her, the call of mabari whistles from the crowd as she clasped the fabric tighter.

“Were you perhaps expecting Rocky,” she teased, favoring the courage that dared peek through her coy smile. Her hips finding the thrum of the ballad. Delighted in his stunned manner, she did her best to recount the steps the mercenary performed moments before, delicately rocking against him as she toyed with the fabric. Doing her best to flick her wrists properly, a new found sense of daring brought on by the heat of their close proximities, her eyes brightened at the opportunity for mischief. “I could fetch him for you, if you would prefer.” Her hold wavering on the fabric as she threatened to pull from his hold.

Gravely interrupted as his larger hand skirted on her hips, pulling her forward as he guided her through the pace of the Tevinter dance he knew so well. “Don’t you dare,” he instructed his voice practically a growl. A reaction, she had not expected from the often shy man, but one that thrilled her very being. The demand, or dare she assume… desire? Swaying her hips, mimicking his, they would part briefly. Their free hand waving like a ribbon, their other connected by the fabric they both held. Krem would draw her in, a moment that the Inquisitor—no, Brion longed to last. For if there was ever a passage in time in which she wished to be encased in, to be lost amongst the writing s of what the Inquisition had accomplished at the Breach this was it. Lost in the sway of the Tevinter man, who had long since captured her heart, her actions growing more tantalizing. As the peace of Haven a stark contrast to the environment she had come to known warmed by the opportunities of the night. By hope. Aspiration as she embedded herself in Krem’s chest, the fabric pulled at her shoulders. Wrapped snuggly against her, the chill long since forgotten as she peered up at the mercenary. The crop of his hair, the light of the campfire marking his cheek bones. The crinkle of his eyes engulfed in a smile; the depths of autumn only captured by his eyes alone as their noses grazed one another. How her heart ached, bounding against her ribcage in the most bittersweet way, one she could never have suspected as she parted her lips alluringly so. Begging, how she beseeched for this moment to last, for his lips to press against hers. What would become of the Inquisition in the days to follow? What of the Bull’s Chargers? Of Krem? Fluttering her lashes, drawing them to a close as Brion dared to press herself closer. _Please…_

And for a moment, it was perfect. The scent of caramel bourbon warmed by the scent of a campfire stoked by oak. The Herald of Andraste could feel the catch in his chest, vibrating through his breastplate. The iron humming gently against her pressed against her fingertips, unaware of its cool touch. Her fingers having caught flame at the push of breath that dared graze her cheek, and for a moment, the Lady Trevelyan suspected that the enigma that made up the mercenary, Cremisius Aclassi returned her affections, the leather of his glove catching her jawline. For a moment, she truly believed, he would return such feelings, and in the next, the moment was robbed from her breast. Slipped through her finger tips as the bells of Haven’s chantry called out in desperation. Alarm spreading through the shudder of the crowd around them. Disbursing in fear as Commander Cullen’s voice rang out amongst the shattered silence. Children terrified as they were ushered to closed areas, women screaming as the villagers scattered. Shaken, and deafening as the former templar’s large frame raced through Haven’s hold. His back turned to them as Krem’s hold on her tightened, one she had savored. Prayed for the opportunity. The very grasp she wiggled out of, his shout lost amongst the crowds as she felt herself beckoned forward, pursuing the Commander to the gates of Haven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> I hope this finds you well, it seems I have found my groove at producing a chapter a week (YAY!). Let's hope I can stick to this schedule in the upcoming months because everything is going to get hectic around here. Don't worry, this story is my stress relief, so Krem will not be abandoned! Just maybe updated less-- but maybe not! We shall see!  
> I have enjoyed looking into what we know of Tevinter (especially with the recent increase teasers of DA4!). The more I look at the division of classes as well as the decorum, the dress, everything reminds me greatly of the era of Ancient Egypt as well as undertones of Ancient Rome (although, historically of course we know that they had influences on each other, so of course they have similiarities). Truthfully, as expected from fiction, Tevinter seems to be made up of touches of a variety of cultures, these two are just the ones that stuck out at the present.  
> So with this in mind, it is only right that I tell you about the dances that inspired this scene! Each country has their own unique way of doing things, and it has been a joy learning about them! So, the dance mentioned in this text weighs heavily on the Raks Sharki (although there are other pronounciations) as it is to my understanding, often performed by anyone, at any time (weddings, parties, in kitchens, etc). I also love the idea of people learning more about this dance-- it is so much more than the theatrical performance most of us are familiar with! I also kept the bellicrepa (what we know of it at least) in mind, as this dance was traditionally taught to soldiers, both dances often incorporate musical instruments (bells, tambourines) as well as fabrics.   
> That pretty much concludes this message ^-^'  
> Hope everyone is doing well! Remember, you are enough. You are loved!  
> until next time,  
> Flower!


	14. If You're Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He left her. He fucking left her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone,  
> please remember that this chapter is over the assault on Haven ("In Your Heart Shall Burn"). While there is not too "too" much mentions of bledshed, remember that this is the nature of this quest. Thank you!

The desperate cries of villagers hung in the stillness of the air, now poisoned with fear and uncertainty. Their fears vibrating in his breast, the unexpected relocation bearing on all those who had survived the assault. The distant drops of water from a forgotten water source echoing throughout the forsaken tunnel. Harrowing were their prayers, the faithful shaken as they pleaded with the Maker. The rare whisper of Elven speech as the occasional elf bargained with their Old Gods. Murmurs, and whispers ate at his thoughts, danger looming at their backs as the fled into the underground caverns. Fingers clasped in distress as mothers buried their little ones in linen, pressing them into their bosoms. Doing their best to quell their tears, the fear ever presents amongst the people. Fright eating at their souls, their cries falling on hushed templars, who bore the weight of the wounded. The scrape of their frozen metal ringing amongst the crowd proof of their movements, the rare glint of armor visible only through the use of magic weavers. The mages careful to provide a weakened illumination to the convoy, averting their gazes as the weary travelers fell into steps, straining to follow the path in its dull lights. Careful not to draw attention. In the flicker of the braze, Krem could make out the occasional familiar face, Vivienne in her stern gaze, her eyes ever focused forward. Unafraid, unrelenting, necessary in times like this, and he suspected, through her upbringing. Confident in her position, those who gazed at her often shuddered, the polar opposite of the even mage, whom found himself at the Inquisition’s mercy. At one point, Krem had seen Solas, a glimpse really as the elf disburse within the masses. His survival threatened as the whispers of Tevinter forces accompanied by the apostates’ rebellion ran rampant, the horrors of blood magic only furthering the terror. Sure footed, and adept at disappearing, the mercenary suspected the elf would only reveal himself once more should the need arrive. As adept as any rogue, Krem appraised. The mutter of Tevinter maleficar only equipped the Iron Bull’s scowl. The mere idea of demon spawn joining this mess setting him on ease, his shoulders already rigid, provoked by the children that hung from his horns as the Chargers advanced in the horde. The Chief’s eyes boring holes into the back of his head as Krem did to ignore his leader’s anxiety brought on by the turn of the people they aided, how quickly the mention of Tevinter horrors could turn against their favor—Krem ought to be used to it by now. His homeland was the birth place of horrors amongst the remainder of Thedas, rumors of blood magic commonplace, slavery, and sacrifices widespread, the bread and butter of the Fereldan folks’ disdain upon his arrival to Haven. The occasional glance even now eliciting a hushed reprimanding, a warning to avert their eyes from him. Gritting his teeth, he pressed forward, he ought to be used to it, and perhaps, one day he would become accustomed to the mistreatment. Biting back tempered words, Krem’s hazel eyes followed the rock of the Brontos that did their best to squeeze into the confined path. Their tails swished at the enclosed quarters, unaccustomed to the large numbers at all sides; they managed well enough, shouldering all the supplies the soldiers could gather in their haste, many treasures, and loved ones left to remain in the rubble. Their rough, patchy skin comfortable in the stale breaths of the underground, their steps reliable in the neglected trail. Lost to time, Krem suspected only Grand Chancellor Roderick knew of the way. A thought that provided him unease, having witness the chantry man run through by a blade; didn’t know he had it in him, really. Yet, she did not falter, protecting a small child from a Venatori’s range. Now, the once proud man led the way, bleeding at the side accompanied by another, who bore the Grand Chancellor’s weight around his neck. From where Krem wandered, he could make out little of the stranger, save for the staff at his back. A mage, the lieutenant assumed from its presence as well as the turmoil it elicited. The shock across scathed bodies and faces, blood staining their clothes, the occasional soot marred expression, the rasp of smoke burned lungs. Marked traumas, the less fortunate left in the wake of their retreat. Each unit, the Chargers included, receiving their orders at their departure as the enemy forces stormed Haven’s walls.

The pound of the mercenary’s heart quivered, having lost sight of the Inquisitor in the chaos, their final moment together of her weighing on his mind.

_Blood stained the fresh fallen snow. The smell of iron burning his lungs as the Chargers pressed towards Haven’s chantry, sheltering the villagers as they bolted up the trail, following it from the Singing Maiden. Terror in their expressions as the mercenary group cleared the way. The ringing of metal against metal, Stitches brandishing a short sword that had seen him through the Blight as he released an all too familiar Andrastean curse. Skinner weaved through the bodies, effortlessly vanishing within the wake of smoke, her laughter the only indicator of her presence. Gore extracting a wince from their elven companion, Dalish as she used her not-staff to enact barriers through her “old elven” tactics. Her eyebrows met as her large eyes surveyed the area. Krem had once more found his stride, his back pressed against his Chief’s as they rotated on their heels. Creating a boundary of an arch as they fought back the encompassing numbers that surrounded them. Only offset by Rocky’s maniacal laughter, “Try this out, ye bastards.”_

_“Defransdim, Rocky,” the Chief cursed as he swung his chest in the direction of the mischievous dwarf. The pale purples of his skin brimmed to life by the fire of a nearby burning building._

_His massive tits smashing Krem in the cheek, knocking him backwards a few steps, one hand finding his cheek. Mouth dropped, another hand gripping his battle axe. “Druffalo’s ass, watch where you throw those things!”_

_“Shit, Rocky. Even Chief’s breasts are more effective than you,” Skinner taunted. Her blade finding a Spellweaver’s side. His sharp grin mocking the dwarf’s short fuse. “Pity.”_

_Red faced as his nose wrinkled, a flask in his hand as he tossed it a pooling crowd of enemies. “At least he has some, can’t say the same, can you?” A flicker of her own raging temper brought on by her petite stature, her sharp eyes jabbing a dagger in the direction of slinger._

_“Durgen’len knows nothing of it,” Dalish teased._

_Rocky’s voice shattered, wounded pride, “I’ll have you know—“_

_“Maker, when was the last time you bedded anyone, “Krem laughed. The banter providing him the strength to press on. The Chargers always had a way of lifting his spirits amongst the carnage, the screams of nearby aide calling him forward._

_“I-why I, Last night! Loads of tits!”_

_A groan as Grim tore through the crowd, finding himself at the dwarf’s side. Stitches tired from the exertion and the playful atmosphere the Chargers maintained amongst the bloodshed, beckoned them forward. “Grim’s right, Chief’s do not count.”_

_“Quality, not quantity,” Iron Bull stated. The sound of a furious scream drawing the mercenaries’ attention. “Boss.”_

_The Inquisitor’s scream tore through the night air. Her rage brimming in her voice as she stepped through the fade, tearing through the thin veil as ice left in her wake. Her staff at her back as her arms reached out, rolling into the snow. A small wail emerging through grasped arms, buried at her chest a child cried for his mother as a woman collapsed to the ground. Blood puddled out her sides, ran through her torso by an approaching Venatori Brute. His gaze on the Inquisitor as he stepped over the lifeless body of whom Krem could assume was the child’s mother. “KREM,” The Chief directed, his own axe distracted by a Spell binder who dared to face off with the significantly larger Qunari. Not that the lieutenant needed the order, his feet moving on their own as he slid through advancing soldiers. His axe catching the Brute’s blade as the metal screamed against the darkness, the smoke blanketing the stars in the horrors of the battle. Forsaken by their light, and forgotten by the one they called the Maker, Krem pushed his weight into the brunt of his blade. Brion’s body positioned to elapse the boy’s frame as her fingers reached out past him, hissing the threat of an enchantment. Flames erupted from her fingertips, her rage sheltering no mercy. The brute unable to fend off both fronts, falling at the edge of Krem’s axe._

That had been their last encounter, her shoving the young boy into the mercenary’s arms. Her eyes feral as she ushered the survivors into the Chantry’s doors. He could feel the pound of his heart, the uncertainty. Something nagged at his thoughts, a concept he could not grasp as he felt the young boy lean into his back. Weary in his compact form, bijou as any antique doll Krem’s mother would have collected in his youth. His chubby, chocolate cheeks nestled into the pauldron of the lieutenant’s armor. Only able to see the tuff of curls upon his head, as dark as the night sky. He could feel the boy burrow into his back, the tremor of his small form leaving Krem to fret over the boy’s health. No older than three years old, and stripped from his mother’s warmth, the Inquisitor enraged at her loss. The round of the lad’s tears as he screamed out. Krem chewed at his lip, squeezing his eyes. The warrior did his best to provide a little rock to his stride, wishing the boy to find comfort in his hold, entrusted upon him by Brion. Prayed he could be lulled to sleep as he felt the tug of a rope at his hip. Yes, the Chargers had their orders to tend to. Following the Chief’s lead as children tugged at his horns, carried across his back. Ciar was not the only youth amongst their ranks now, each orphaned throughout their time at Haven. Krem had threaded a rope through the loop of three other children’s clothing, worried they would find themselves lost amongst the masses that made up the desperate. The oldest, or at least Krem suspected was at the back, a decision the lieutenant had made in the event any of the younger children slipped through the knots. Irail, an unlikely lad that had joined in quarreling the little ones found his finger grasped by the little girl of the group, believing him to be her knight in shiny armor—not of the templar variety. His normal biting remarks hushed by her blatant affections; his ears red at the sudden proclamation of innocence. The unexpected humility shushing the boy, a sight Krem would be sure to pass on to his guardian. Giving the lieutenant a chuckle, Krem guided them forward, he could hear the forced gentle murmur of his leader. Bull shushing the two that traced the structure of his horns, curious at the keratin’s formation. “Imekar,” he whispered under a strain face, unfamiliar with tending to little ones. He had once told the group of the strict roles amongst the Qun, the Iron Bull deemed unsuitable for child care. The idea giving the Tevinter a snicker as he did the best to avoid the wavering hands that reached for his eye patch.

Dalish patting the oldest boy tied to Krem’s lead, Artt on the shoulder. A forced smile, familiar with having to relocate throughout her childhood. While Skinner merely offered an expression of repulse as she leaned away from any prying hands. The remainder of the Chargers out of Krem’s sight, he found himself humming in a shaky voice, a lullaby from his childhood. One of his mother’s rare attempts to nurture him, rather than lecture. The memory forming in a sigh, whom he was trying to comfort, the children under his care, or his wandering thoughts, he did not know. Yet, he hummed the song “Somniari…”

Krem could feel The Iron Bull’s large hand at the top of his head as though the large Qunari were soothing a sobbing child. His voice offering a little comfort in its awkward way, “damn it.” His deep voice resonated with the Tevinter man, vibrated his pores as he fought to collect his thoughts. His mind swimming, wide eyed as he leaned forward, appraising the toes of his boot. Warn through with abuse, much like his thoughts. He would need to replace them, yes, that needed to be done. His heart in his throat as he fought to reflect on the prior hours. He didn’t know; he was completely unaware of the implications brought on by Commander Cullen’s lead. Distracted by the tasks at hand, tending to little ones. Keeping them distracted, soothing fears as though they were monsters under beds. Keeping an eye on Irail, aware of the worried gaze the lad cast among the other villagers. Searching for something amongst the mob of faces, falling short with disappointment with each passing figure. Having to endure his mouthy retorts, denying the growing cries of hunger were not in fact emerging from his stomach. Cheeks red at each denial before Krem had tolerated it to the best of his ability. A full twenty minutes by Dalish’s count before the Tevinter man shoved food down the lad’s throat. Pride bares no place amongst the hungry, and he would need his strength in the days to come. Ignoring Skinner’s remarks of Krem’s coddling the boy, to immersed in caring for those around him, the mercenary had never considered the change of hands in command. He had thought her with the ambassadors of the Inquisition, protected personally by the Commander. Never had he thought, never had he considered—they had left her. They fucking sacrificed her... _I fucking left her_ , he thought through clenched teeth. His fingers collapsed into bald fists. His knuckles turning white in his grasp as he fought back the vile in the back of his throat. “She’s alive, Krem.”

To this, he was aware, Andraste’s breath was he aware. The Qunari very well knew this, after all… He had seen her. Carried in by his righteous ass himself, Cullen. The sight of her sent him reeling. Her tucked in his arms, cradling her in his hold. The manner in which he looked at her was enough to feed the spark of jealous within the warrior. The realization of her battered body, bleeding and scrapped wreaked havoc on his thoughts. Eliciting the rage. Left unconscious from her near-death experience, she had collapsed, the life drawing from her as the mark at her hand sparked and flared at any who dared neared her. The Tevinter’s mouth getting the better of him as he hurled an insult at the prior templar, unsolicited and unashamed at the fury that tore at his lips. “Fasta vass, you did this to her!” The Chief being the only one capable of catching him mid stride, Krem more than prepared to come to blows with the Commander, who dared to touch the Lady Trevelyan. Soil her, fake concern after willingly sacrificed her to the horde that threatened their very lives. Had claimed a few! Feeling the massive forearm at his gut, yanking him from his swing, Krem did his best to fight back the Qunari. Left powerless against his Chief’s hold, offering only one last spat of an insult, “Vishante kaffas.” The threat drawing an entertained chuckle from the unexpected mage at Chancellor Roderick’s side, a display of delight as the man watched Krem with new found interest. He was making a spectacle of himself he imagined, how his mother would be ashamed to hear such horrific behavior before the very people she deemed “barbaric”. The realization only furthering his temper as the Iron Bull dragged him from the onlookers, much as his mother had herded him as a boy mid tantrum. “Gurgut humping bastard.” Seething, the young Vint was seething, his arms up accusing before the glint of his commanding officer’s glare caught him, the battle veteran lifting the younger human above his head before pile driving him into the snow.

“Cool your head Krempuff,” Iron Bull bellowed, a slight edge in his voice. A warning, his lieutenant assumed, having tumbled into a shouting match with the leader of the Bull’s Chargers. His temper still flaring before Iron Bull offered one final warning, “Cremisius.” The mere mention of his name drawing his eyes, the word biting into his hide as his hands grazed through the snow, wrenching himself from the ground. A struggle to dig himself, his eyes searching the Qunari’s face. Anger had not touched his commanding officer’s features. Furthering Krem’s agitation, a quite frustration as he managed himself to his feet before feeling the pad of a large hand on the top of his head. The Chief did not brandish pursed lips, rather they drew in a thin line. His eye reading every movement the former soldier made under his watchful gaze. A crease of a brow that followed the length of his nose, the spy-trained warrior assessed his lieutenant once more, his large hand reaching into the knapsack at his back. At one time, Krem had laughed at how little it appeared on the Chief, the damn thing practically able to stow Rocky away should his mouth get the better of him. How Krem loathed that Ben-Hassrath training, dodging his inquiring gaze in favor at glowering at the snow. A sudden pull of warmth, fabric draped on his back, the glint of a power-hungry warhorse glaring him down. The finery of the embroidery, the noble stitch work that the arctician had poured into its craftsmanship- the pain staking hours Krem had poured into mending the ruptures in the stitch work. How desperately he defended the mystery of the blanket’s owner, dodging the impish gazes of the Chargers. Denying how his heart longed to see it’s keeper smile at his patchwork, to know the care he weaved into a beloved possession. The mere glance of the Trevelyan emblem exposing the truth, their employer being the only lady born to a noble human class amongst the Free Marches under the Inquisition’s expansive reach. Iron Bull’s feign responses, pretending to be unaware of the growing affections his lieutenant harbored, revealed before him now. Though, Krem had always suspected he’d known—damn Ben Hassarath. The scent of vanilla, and old pages of forgotten tomes warmed his nostrils drawing the heat to his cheeks, tempted to rub his cheeks against the tapestry, comforted by the fragrance that warmed his earlier memories. A time when a mere stranger offered him kindness in a foreign land as the sky fell to shit around them.

_I left her_ … The scorn of his thoughts targeted at himself as he felt the pad of Bull’s hand on the crown of his head. His hand nearly large enough to lift Krem by his skull. The shame seeped in, the realization of his behavior. How he had thrown words at Cullen. He knew Brion, knew her passion. Her desire to protect those under her care, her willingness to go so far, he should have known. The feral glaze of her eye before they parted ways; he alone bore the blame for her rash decision; he should have stopped her. Could the mercenary had stopped her? He could feel the tremble of his lip as the Chief’s gaze did not relent. Appraising every movement as tears threatened the edge of Krem’s eyes. Daring to peek from his eyelashes.

“Pardon,” a thick accent broke the silence of the moment, jerking Cremisius Aclassi’s gaze. His eyes wide as Mother Gisselle intruded on their interaction. Bull’s hand still placed on his head, drawing a raised eyebrow at the clergy woman. Curious at what the religious speaker had to say, having never spoken to them before. Her gaze uncomfortable, knowing and shifting as she looked at the Tevinter man, ignoring the act in which she had caught between the two. Her hands pressed tightly together, the blood on her sleeves revealing her ability to tend to the Lady Trevelyan’s wounds. The only member of the Inquisition that found herself of sound mind. Her cowl loomed in the dark of night; her old eyes carefully aware of their movements. “The Lady Lelianna has requested that the Tevinter remain at the Inquisitor’s side until she wakes… she believes he would be a great comfort.”

He could feel his eyes widened, searching his Chief for any direction whether to stay or go. Lost to the thought of seeing her in such a state, longing to see her lashes parting to reveal her honey eyes. The Qunari scoffed at the desperate look upon his lieutenant’s face. “What am I, your wet nurse?”

“Tits like that, maybe,” he managed. Quipping a smirk, however hollow the attempt at humor may be.

The tears near threatening him once more as he followed after the chantry mother. Weary of the glance she gave him before leading him to back to the folds of the camps. Tents barely made up in the wintered cold. The night air frigid, and unrelenting as the arguing of higher ups echoed throughout the mountainside. Their unease apparent, and revealing as they duked it out under Mother Giselle’s mindful glances. Biting his lips as the wounded, the smell of old wounds in the air. The chill gathered through their worn bodies, blankets scarce and unavailable at the ready. The smell of poultices reeking, revealing the work Stitches had offered in the mending process. The all too familiar stank mock phoenix’s breath, an odd comfort. Under the Fereldan veteran’s care, he had little worries of any passing. Most would see through the night, Stitches renowned for his dedication to the unwilling patient, especially in the case of those often overlooked, such as the elf that was bandaged from her fingers to left side of her face, crouched on a cot. Worse for wear he imagined; his grasp clutched against his sides. Fighting for the available tint of armor. Anything to distract him from the anxiety that tore at his flesh as Mother Giselle pushed forward through the throngs of harmed individuals. Those who needed to be seen, those who had already been tended to, young, old, dwarf, elf, human, it mattered not to their enemy. Nor did it bother the infections that impended under the wintered air. The chill of snow at the back of his neck, a reminder from the Chief to keep his cool should he encounter the Commander once more. An unlikely threat, given his current duel with the Lady Montylet—poor sop would never win a match of words with that one. A slight petty, Krem could admit as a smile tugged at his cheeks. _Let her have him._

“I will leave you,” Mother Giselle murmured, unwilling to maintain eye contact with him.

Just as well, Krem couldn’t breathe. His throat caught, and the anxiety encouraging the nausea that formed. His eyes caught on the sight of the Inquisitor, of Brion laid on her back. A cot shambled from excessive use, by who he did not know. Its thin linen sheets tugged slightly at her sides. Her hair let down, how beautiful her blonde locks were tossed to her side, kept from her face in her sleep. The blush of her cheeks against the cold, threatening to remain warm despite the chill that bore at his ears. Long lashes that threatened to never wake, she smelt of Stitches’ horrid concoction, a worried smile that trembled at the realization. The afterglow of having been attended to by the finest, magic included in her healing process. Daring to drape her family crest across her fragile frame, he could see the scrapes of her cheeks, having met with rocks at some point in their time apart. The bandages at her left arm, likely torn apart as well. Bruises forming in the visible peeks of skin, the mark of her hand the only untreated blemish on her body. Her breathing slow, his knees buckled at her sides. No, throughout all his time with the Chargers, he had not seen so much blood shed. Not of the defenseless, nor the innocent, and for a moment, he struggled to recall his time under the Tevinter Imperium, had he seen such horrors like that of Haven? Shifting forward, his elbows at her bedside. The snow beneath him wavering, fighting back the wetness that threatened his eyes. Crying would do him no good, yet he could not fight the tremble of his body as he pressed his forehead against her unmoving hand. Ushering a prayer, to Tevinter gods, Dalish, to the maker the Andrasteans called their own, any god that would listen, Krem pleaded with as the exhaustion hit him; his eyes heaving with sorrow. _I fucking left her_ … Defiant to his will, his demand to remain, he drifted to sleep. Dreaming of a time when they danced under the night sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's me again!  
> Now that you're at the end of the Chapter, I just love the idea of Krem, who we have seen as flawless (save for the way they go about that scene Aqun-Athlok, still makes me queasy, but more on that latter *AHEM*) fracturing a little bit-- for the right person. I don't feel that many have seen this side of him, the vulnerable side that requires support and love, only revealing for those he deems a safe place.  
> I also want to take a moment to express a sincere THANK YOU to everyone who has left me a Kudos or comment. I cannot express how much I enjoy the surpise of them popping up, or how happy they make me! <3 Thank you again!  
> Until next time,  
> Flower


	15. Untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The empending of Empress Celene, and the Chargers request to explore the ruins of. The location of Skyhold had given rise to a sense of comfort amongst the ranks, but mostly the uniting of an unlikely pair: Irail and Krem.

The breeze danced through the frigid mountainside, snowflakes clinging to its guidance. The stillness of the day lending itself to the high altitude, the wildlife unable to thrive in the frozen climate. The elevation crushing any creatures that dared the environment, the gravity syphoned the breath from their lungs. The chill of exhale causing trembles of the unfortunate beast that succumbed to the winter’s grasp. The rare caw of a raven midflight, daring the harsh climate, an unexpected, unrelenting force that rivaled that of its master. Refusing to submit to circumstances, its raven wings fluttered in the breeze. Black feathers fluttering in the breeze, powerless against its surrounding. The stark crunch of snow, the frost of sleet hushed under its contrasting pigment, camouflage unfeasible amidst the sleets beneath its wings. The glide of its cries, shuddering the cold from its crest as it pressed forward, resolute in its mission. A tremble of parchment bound to its leg, sealed shut with a stamp upon it’s delicate folds. The vivid colors of lemon kissed yellow met at the intersection of faded emerald, fanged beasts daring to rare on their hinds, faced in opposing directions. The emblem of a noble Orleasian knight nestled at the end of the arrow head crest, baring the insignia of the House Chalons. It’s sender to reveal itself at the fingertips of the Inquisition. The fall of fresh snow danced, untouched at the mountainside. The breath of winter swayed, dared to carve into the formations that made up the Frostback Mountains, carrying the flight of the raven messenger. Guided by its direction, the ebony bird accompanied by the cries of the lost. Whispers turning to screams, the anguish of death, and the sting of aged blood transported by the horrific memories, ineluctable. A stain upon the history of Thedas, a reminder of the bloodshed of Haven. Soaring into the fortress that the Inquisition now occupied, flourished within the stone walls. The unkindness welcomed its wayward companion back into its folds. The rattle of metal cages as their cries echoed throughout the tower. Feathers flocked into the air, spiraling down the stair case as the candle lights dimmed. Foreboding, unwelcoming as the turbulent emotions harbored by the spymaster as she stretched her arm out, greeting the raven with a light scowl. Brushing her finger tips across its crest, affectionate for a moment before the Lady Nightingale parted the messenger from its memorandum. Her eyes the only flicker of flame as she dissipated into the darkness of her lair, clutching the parchment through strained memories of a life she had left behind her, tales of blood, elegant music orchestrated by gowns and lies… the Empress Celene awaits.

The desperate cries of fallen villagers, the ting of iron, the rot of smoke that burned the lungs. _Maker, the screams._ Years of service under the Tevinter Imperium banner shamed him; he had seen warfare. Witnessed the tragedy left in its wake, and yet, Krem suspected that the assault on Haven would remain with him for years to come. The whisper of horrors, he may very well never escape. Never had he considered such a strike would have happened, he had blissfully unaware. The signs had been there, unwavering to their cause. Yet, as had the other occupants of the desolation, he had ignored them, overlooked them in hopes of favorable circumstances, and for a moment, he had known piece. Her scent enveloped in his heart; her fingers intertwined within his own. The folds of fabric, locked together as their eyes had met. The graze of her cheek beneath his glove, all of this, he had experienced. Stripped of titles, dared to grasp, only for it to shatter beneath his grasp. The assault of Haven had distanced them. Threatened the bonds the lieutenant had nurtured, the warmth of her fingers through his hair. How she had looked at him, only him as he had longed. The memory warming his breast, and drawing the heat to his hears as his fingers drew in the loops of leather straps. The jerk of the boy shattering him from his flights of fancy, “Oi, pervert, best not be thinking of Milady” Irail threatened. Shuddering against the lieutenant’s hold. A visible scowl across his brow, standing a little shorter than himself. Maker, the lad had grown in the short time he had known him, meanwhile his temper had shortened. Caught, Krem concluded, drawing an awkward glower from the lieutenant.

“Could leave you behind, you know?” Krem retorted, bristled once more at the lad’s accusation.

Wrinkled nose, jerked head, the mercenary suspected his lips were pursed, frustrated at the circumstances, a loss of words as he brooded. An all too familiar sight for the Tevinter; Irail had developed quite the scowl, saved for the mercenary. At times, he had wondered if it were permanent etched upon his growing features. Not that Krem could blame him, a humorous smirk catching him off guard. The furrow of a brow amongst the lad, fifteen, Mother Giselle had told him. The growing rage upon the lad’s high cheek bones, knowing all too well the memory Krem harbored under a chuckle.

_Waves of vanilla, the turn of old books, warm. Krem had felt warm, nestled at her side. His knees buried into the snow, bent over her cot amongst the medic campsites. The scent of blood washed from her features, the warmth of linen as he burrowed his cheeks into the blankets once more. He could hear her, gentle whispers as long fingers threaded through his locks. Toyed with strands of his mane, tousled them about affectionately as she purred into her palm, resting her cheek into her hand. A small smile gracing her full lips, he suspected through dazed sleep. The rise of his chest, one moment more, he thought to himself. Savoring her touch, the gentle gaze at his shoulders, the burrow of the blankets as his cheek rested on her leg. His weight collapsed against her sturdy frame. Krem was no stranger to the curvature of her body, the venture of her hips, the curve of her--- no best not to think of it, the tips of his ears threatening to reveal him. What he would give for one more moment lost in the bliss of her hold. Though such euphoria is brief, fleeting, as was the shatter of apothecary jars muddled as the shouts of horrors shook Krem from his lucid dreaming. Head jerked from her thigh, her fingers raised from the crown of his head, Krem was alert, wary. Catching the wide-eyed gaze that threatened to ensnare him, her mouth dropped, as though she had been a girl caught swiping sweet rolls from her nurse maid. The delicate blush of her cheeks, the shade of her lips before his attention drew to the barking of her guardian, his voice cracking with age._

_“H-How dare you infringe on milady’s honor!” He roared, his face reddening by the moment. The once delicately loaded apothecary jars now shattered at his boots, the loose pull of his tunic, borrowed from one of the older officers as he had outgrown his own. His temper threatening his features, pulling at the scraps of his face. Drawing blood from the cut of his eyebrow Stitches had barely managed to bind close, having dedicated hours to convincing the lad to allow him to tend to him. Whether it was the worry of taking from the Lady Inquisitor’s care, or rather the glory of his first scar, Krem could not say. Though as his aggression stoked, the puff of his cheeks, the shifting gaze of the lad, unable to contain eye contact with the lieutenant, nor his lady… Krem had to wonder if it were truly the call of defending the Lady Trevelyan’s honor, or if wandering into such an intimate display had shamed him. Aggression fueled by embarrassment as he jabbed his finger at the Tevinter. “FLOGGED, Milady I demand he be flogged!”_

_“I would be worried, should you stand a foot taller.”_

_It was a sigh, a tired one at that, on weary bones and bruised ribs as she pulled herself from the cot. The strain of worn muscles, aching from a series of trauma Krem dared not inquire. The shutter of what she may have endured, left behind at Haven for their escape gnawed as his gullet as he shifted on his own heels, adverting his eyes as the woman equipped a warm smile, tilting her head as she evaluated her boy. “Irail,” warm enlaced in her voice as relief flooded her features. Tears threatened her lashes as a finger traced her cheeks. Rare were the moments she so, in a world torn apart, the risks she had endured to protect him. All of it seemed undeniable as she spoke tenderly with him, and for a moment, Krem wondered how Irail had found himself in her care, daring to ponder if they shared familial bonds. The quite shock of a moment in which he wondered if, by some chance, she were in fact the boy’s mother, and if so, who might his father be? The bastard, Krem thought as his mind wandered, surely, his imagination was getting the better of him. Though he had never thought to ask Brion’s age, knew better he supposed. His intrusion on their moment baring guilt, his hand catching the back of his neck awkwardly. Drawing a hand at a bottle at her cot’s side, twiddling it awkward on its axis. “What of Flora?”_

_It was quiet, the boy’s features darkening for a moment before turning from the Inquisitor’s gaze. “I-I believe Mother Giselle has called me,” he mumbled. Nearly choking on his words… Stalling, Krem could recognize such antics from a mile away, employed them a time or two in his youth. Pulling from her reach, his almond eyes catching Krem’s, having dared to evaluate the moment. Nosy, it had been nosy of the lieutenant, yet he could not resist such actions. Concern beckoning his gaze, caught off guard at being seized under his gaze. He was no father, least of all Irail’s. “YOU.” A bit of a hiss, crafting a V-shape with his pointer finger and middle turned at his eyes before yanking at the mercenary. A mock, or perhaps a pending warning, a promise the young man would be watching him, wearing of the close proximity the Lady Trevelyan had shared with him, his eyes unwilling to stray from him as they parted ways._

_“I think I’m growing on him.”_

Such glares had become commonplace between the two of them since that encounter, weeks ago. Guided under watchful gaze, Krem had become increasingly aware of the boy’s changing habits. The alteration in behavior, he had assumed was adapted to better chaperone his encounters with the Inquisitor, however rare they may have become since their time in Skyhold. Yet, as time waned on, the peculiar interactions between Irail and Commander Cullen had not escaped him. At first, they were mere excuses, as light-hearted as the one he had offered Brion. Playful, a right of passage for any boy his age, a slight laugh elicited from Krem at one such encounter, when the boy had sworn he was expected in the kitchens despite his fumbling after Krem having been well known through out the fortress— had the fibs Krem fabricated for his own mother been so blatantly obvious? Would explain the sullen red of her cheeks when he’d slip out the door, a lie to run errands spent on chasing after the pastry girl. Though such innocent pardons gave way to tempered bursts, one such encounter having caught Krem especially off guard. He had been tending to a request of the weapon smith, Harrit; submitting a requisition for the very armor Krem fitted against the youth now. Ignoring the remarks of Skinner, as she sharpened her blade, like a Marbari with a bone as she taunted his persistent coddling of his tracker. Mid-commission, delving up the boy’s estimated measurements a skill handed down by his father, it had happened. The words were spat out, seeping with rage at the Commander’s recent inquiry. Perhaps the question was drawn from the boy’ sudden disinterest in sword play, adopted into an albeit, painful display of stealth, or rather, in one way or another, the former templar had grown concern over Irail’s development. Regardless of the cause, it did little to divert the temper, a jab of fingers at a tempered fist raised at the commanding officer. “Bloody— don’t you get it. Shits fer brains, murders the lot of you! ‘Supposed to be Andraste’s heros and you’re nothing more than a bunch of milk drinkers. No better than prissy Orleasian ladies waiting for a piss poor chance of bedding a noble. There is more honor amongst a Mabari bitch in heat than you—” Truly, it was the reddening of the commanding officer that drove Krem forward, beckoned him to the mad boy’s side, robbed of any breach of sanity. Mucking out a less than passable joke as Krem dragged Irail from Commander Cullen, weary of the backlash that would ensue should the veteran regain himself. Though, the lieutenant would savor the struck appearance of the Commander.

Sometime afterwards, Krem had noticed Irail no longer shadowing him. Better turnabout really, can’t say what had convinced the boy he’d have a skill of a rogue, but he was glad to see such ventures snubbed out. Some points, the boy could be beckoned by his side at the tavern, and another such coaxing, having gifted a blade in his calloused hands. An interaction that had been ilicited from faded memories of peering over his father’s shoulder when he shaved.

_The distant memory had caught Krem by surprise. In all of the chaos that had ensued, the busy days tending to renovations amongst the Inquisition soldiers had kept him busy. Having spent a week or two ensuring the fortress inhabitable to their growing numbers, remembrances of his childhood were few and far between, and the moments they could hope to rear their ugly heads were claimed by training, his companions serving a welcoming distraction from the past. The day had been warm, well as warm as a day could hope to achieve atop a fucking snowy mountain range. Krem had thought he’d escaped the winter hell-land, only to be surprised at their rehoming in the Frostback Mountains, a surprise that had brought him displeasure, an annoyance upon his return from Redfcliffe, the Charger’s recent mission of exploring the remainders of its once magnificent castle. Though, he had welcomed the new hold, concluding anything would be far more appealing than submerging himself in the horrors that remained in the wake of parting of the Mage Rebellion. A bloody mess reeking of the forbidden arts, the very ones that would shame any decent Magister, a revelation Krem assumed King Allistair would be regretful of his choices in housing the mages, should he ever receive word from the Arl. Without reaching the hold, Krem knew his report of what they had unearthed of Redcliffe’s mages had only confirmed the Lady Nightingale’s suspicions. Most of all, he knew his message would only invoke further training, any mention of demons often a trigger for the Chief._

_How right he had been. As soon as they had repaired the roofing (well… mostly) of the structure reserved for a tavern, Maker how Krem welcomed a good ale, the Chief had them on their feet, his axe in hand. The only surprise was that the Qunari had insisted on his lieutenant beating on him with a spare plank of wood—probably didn’t want to risk damaging the supply in the event it come from his pocket. There was a certain way of the skirmish, one that bordered on insanity under his order. The Chief loved to challenge the lot of them, and thrived under an ambush, encouraged them even. It was then, Krem noticed the boy. Somewhere between his swing, Skinner using his back as a spring board to launch herself in the air, and the Chief catching her ankle mid-air, he had caught a glimpse of the boy. Bent over a barrel, Irail rested near where Krem had set the younger children to bask in the sun under his watch, his eyes sharp as any blade at their movements, or at least what Krem had seen of it before the Chief used Skinner as a weapon, his massive hand on her ankle as he swung her into the mercenary’s side, sending the both of them reeling from the blunt force. Krem’s speculation only confirmed, Irail’s cheek resting in his hand as Skinner peeled herself from Krem’s lap. A bitter curse, one meshed of proper Elvish, and her time raised in the Alienage slipped through her lips as she pressed her fingers into the dirt, flipping herself to her feet. Hand already on her blade before he had time to blink, or rather, before he had a moment to care. The rogue righting herself, sending herself back into the fray. There on his ass, Krem’s gaze on Irail, who was far to engrossed in spectating to notice he, himself was being examined. Distant memories Krem had buried, gnawed on his thoughts. Beckoned him to his feet, coaxed him forward. He had been a boy, one so young, five or so, should Krem have to guess, in a costume that did not suit him. Humiliated him, really, and yet, he paid it no mind, his eyes having snagged on his father, the older Aclassi preparing himself for the day. Having already oiled his hair into its place, his aged hands found his razor, sculpting the side of his face. On tip toes, Krem peered over the decorative sofa his mother had placed, ever so in the way, trembling to better see his father at work. His lip trembling, curious, hopeful even, and it was then, their eyes met, and Cremisius fought back the chill that sprinted down his neck. Cold, and frightened, much as the halla he had seen in the market during a summer festival. Yes, it was the distant memory of his father, having noticed his yearning, daring to tilt the ornate mirror for the boy to better see his hands nimbly remove stubble that snuck up during the night._

_The blade was out of his hand before he knew it. His gaze cast on Ciar, the sweet lad he had carried on his back from Haven had slowly regained his heart, his fingers tugging on the ears of a nug toy, Krem had sewn in his days away, wanting nothing more than to see a smile grace the sweet lad’s chubby cheeks. His black curls danced as he let out a laugh, entertained by Sabnbh as she swayed the bunny she had claimed near the younger child’s face. Rocky had mocked Krem’s patchwork, self-assured that his toy sword crafted out of drift wood a more suitable toy; how his pride had fallen. Her pale skin far lighter than Krem’s, and almond black eyes closed, giggling herself. She was a wonderful caretaker, when she wasn’t tailing after Irail spouting off her affections. While the clear display of puppy love was amusing, how it embarrassed the target of her affections, it had elicited a bit of a lecture, one Krem didn’t know he was capable of, an attempt to derail such intense emotions in one so young, especially over one so… Irail. More so, he had seen the after math of her declarations left on her older companion, Artt. His olive tone defenseless against the shades of envy of his cheeks, the pout of his lips, his pale green eyes never straying from her. Not even now as he adjusted the tunic of the younger boy, Eoin. Fair skin as any porcelain doll could ever hope to be, hair that any ruby would envy as he submitted to Artt’s adjustment, rough as he fought back the resentment festering, his eyes hung on Sabnbh, who now turned her giddy attention to Irail, waving ever o boldly. Yet, Irail had no time for the little girl’s insistence of joining her in play, his eyes having dropped to the blade Krem forced into his hand. Surprise sketched on his features, his eyes bright, and wide. His hair reflecting the joy of the sun, a farmer’s envy of wheat. Yes, it was the memory, however faint it had been of his father’s hazel eyes, and the smile that hung on his pursed lips as Krem attempted to trace on his chubby cheeks the sweeps his own father had made on his chiseled features. A smile that Krem now offered Irail._

_He was quick, his grin wide as his strides, clumsy as well. Krem’s head cocked, a grin on his own face as the boy weaved his way into the fray. Not nearly as skillfully as Skinner had, but welcomed none the less. Dalish forcing an opening for the boy. A knowing smile danced across her valleshan, a glimpsed flickered at the Chief. A shriek from Rocky, drawn out by the dwarf having his hand wrenched behind his back, his makeshift bomb rattling to Grim’s feet, the human only offered a disappointed shake of his blonde locks. Smoke blanketing the battlement grounds, Skinner’s jovial mood echoing in the smoke, Krem would have to speak to her about these antics, can’t having her scare the little ones that had found themselves under their charge. The gasp of Irail as Stitches heaved him forward, a force the lad hadn’t expected before finding himself swinging at the Chief. Not one to be a fool, the Iron Bull caught the boy in his swing, lifting him above his head. Eyes wide, shocked at the opponent’s strength—can’t blame him, Krem had thought with a chuckle. Irail struggling against his tremendous hold, doing his best to struggle before the Qunair chuckled, loosening his hand just so, a rare gift from their not-so-humble leader, as Irail drove his boot into his chin, throwing himself back. Landing on his ass, there was pride as Irail submitted to laugher. Bending his head backwards, releasing the chorus of laughter. It was a moment Krem would not sooner forget._

Thankful for the change of pace, it was this turn events that had the former Tevinter soldier, fastening various loops, guided by familiarity. Perhaps, there was some merit in Skinner’s, and now Rocky’s scathing remarks. The cries of Haven still ringing in Krem’s ears as he pondered the urgency that had drew the coin from his pocket, spending more than he could have ever thought on armor that would never shoulder him from blows. Had the boy ever witnessed such wrath? Had Irail witnessed such bloodshed? Krem could not say, and in truth, he dared not ask. Not from having caught the fading glance of fading summer warmth, shades of green giving way to autumn’s chill; more than just the boy’s height had changed since their first encounter. There was a weight, a burden unspoken from the lad, one that Krem had paced back and forth on. Questioned his right to prod at such depths, his skilled hand now drawing the final clasp of the baldric at his hip. The size appropriate sword tucked in its sheath, one Krem had carefully ensured was weighted to Irail’s growing form. Behind them, Krem knew without glancing the all too familiar sounds. Rocky shuffling through various vials, all that would need super vision in the days to come; Grim grunting carefully as he tucked his blades into their sheaths. His blonde hair a stark contrast to the sweat gleam of Stitches’ brow, the stench of the veteran’s poultice burning the companies’ nose. Dalish holstering her not-staff to her back under the not-tender gaze of Skinner, who had been prepared for their mission at daybreak. Itching to embark to the remains of Haven, the elf had a sense of vigor that Krem lacked brought on by their unsuspected companion, Irail, who now offered a small tremble. The shift of his eyes hiding his fear, drawing Krem’s hands to either side of his shoulder. Words, he had none, nor did he expect the action to occur, and in truth, he was stunned when the boy didn’t bat him away, fussing with red ears. Rather, there was a pause. The glimmer of summer’s comfort as he glanced up at the lieutenant.

“Nothin’ to worry bout,” Krem reassured him, patting his shoulder awkwardly.

It was forced, one that brought a distant smile to the lieutenant’s face as Irail shrugged off his touch. “Oi, pervert’s looking for any chance, eh? Worried, pssh,” the bark of his distain, the hint of distaste, but unable to deny the pink of his ears before Krem ruffled his hair.

He wished… he had savored the moment with the boy. Longed to go back to such a moment of untouched innocence, to enjoy the unexpected joy of Irail as he was. His temper, his smart mouth, all of which Krem had taken for granted. Most of all, he wondered why it had never occurred to him why the lad had requested to join them on this campaign. He should have dared to prod him, demand to know why the change of heart, and as he stood before Irail, drenched in blood, Krem knew the Irail he had once known, once traded scathing remarks with, shouldered blows, and corrected forms had diminished. The accusation of lecherous intents, his light laugh, Maker, what would he give to hear that laugh… was gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all!  
> Cliff hangers... why am I doing them? I dont even like them, but truthfully... it's because I have very, very little planned out, and they give me a moment to think... ^-^'  
> Anyways, I know that we are emproaching a difficult time frame for you-- Valentine's Day in the States. For those of you who are happy to be spending this day cuddled up with another, you are still welcome to read this message! For those of you strugglig through loneliness, heartbreak, or any other negative thoughts, whether brought on by peers, or from within. I want you to remember more than anything, that I am so happy to have you here, reading my fanfiction. I have loved speaking with some of you, and hope that this recent update brings a smile to you during this difficult time. Remember, everything takes time, and for everything in this world you want, there is someone, waiting to meet YOU. Regardless of circumstances, regardless of what you're going through, they are waiting,  
> You are worthy.  
> You are loved.  
> The world is a far better place with you in it!  
> Until next time,   
> Flower <3


	16. Ballad of an Enchanter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a sea of colors, warmths of reds, and depths of blues, every shade of color bolf and delightful across the color spectrum. Intimidating, and lost amongst the waves of vivid hues, Sorley has always struggled to compare to the vibrant personalities that joined him at the Ostwich Circle. There was Brion, a comfort amongst the seas of change, her lienage and capabilities a pride to the Circle, and then, there was Merek, talented and sharp. Quick as any blade, he had known the Circle for most of his life, and then, there was Sorley. Beige at best, untalented, only landing at the Ostwich's Circle after having changing hands countless times. Lackluster, he had found himself under Merek's thumb in their youth, robbed of any chance of valor... or was he?

Buried, they had been buried. The rare and few Andraste had smiled on had managed to burrow their way through the snow, their limbs jutting from the snowdrifts. Their bodies the only likely to be recovered if any survivors risked returning to the demolished hold. Buildings crumbed under the pressure of inescapable death. Already worn from the wind, the structures stood little hope of baring the weight, snapped like twigs under a Bronto’s steps. Left in the wake of war, he could make little of the snow graves whether enemies or friend, he no longer knew. Dared not move, his body betraying him. The smell of blood burning his nose. The iron searing his nostrils; the faded soot from extinguished fires, tinging the hairs of his aquiline nose, a promise that this would be the last he would know of this world. Sorley had never considered himself one of Andraste’s lucky few, Maker knew he was a mockery of a mage, best kept his talents in pastries than in enchantments. Yet, he was one of the blessed, mustard enough strength to dig himself from the snow drift amongst the bloodshed. The snowfall having been robbed of its innocence, marred with the iron spilt across the snow slide. The avalanche knew no allies, borrowing the lot of them in graves, pounds of crushing slurries of ice and hail that threatened to collapse his lungs. Though, what little he knew of healing magic, Sorley was more than aware… the damage was already done. Fallen banners of the Chantry crushed in the distance, the snapped folds of fabric that had once homed the Inquisition’s flourishing forces. Corners of chests daring to peek from the snow’s grasp, the only joyful find in this morbid mess. The rare bits of wood that emerged from the snowfall tarnished by fire, splintered and jagged, a treacherous find for any unsuspecting looter. Bits of foreign armor stripped from their wearers, the tear of cult decorum, robes waving in the wind. The Venatori had suffered a significant blow, a substantial one by the Lady Trevelyan’s hand—rather, Sorley supposed the famed Herald of Andraste no longer utilized such a title, having traded it in for a better one. Not that he could blame her for her tactic, submerging enemy forces in the avalanche brought on by Inquisition catapults, no, she had done what was necessary. Perhaps even kind. She always had. Yet, the burn of his body, the tear of a gnash torn, having gutted by a warrior of merit. Maker, he had wished the swordsman capable of improved aim, not to be clearly. The realization leaving him to harsh out a laugh of misery, the burn of his lungs threatened at the gesture. He knew better than to move; the sheer luck of his survival at this point hinging on the cold climate, protecting him from bleeding out right. Though, he suspected, it was no longer to be; no mage, nor apothecary would be able to combat the infection festering, nor repair his battered body… and he didn’t want them to. Just as the bodies rotted around him, he knew, this too would be his tomb. The only question baring on his withering body, was how had he come to be in this state?

_Sorley shook beneath Merek’s gaze, trembled to the bone. His robes poisoned by the bloodshed that had ensued within the Ostwick Circle, provided the opportunity when he had mistakenly distracted the Senior Enchanter Lydia. Maker if he had known, he would have kept his mouth shut. Would have gone so far as to sewn his lips together. The memory horrifying him, Merek’s blade tearing into her side. The newest enchanter at her side, Brion weeping as her legs gave out beneath the older woman’s weight. A splay of bloodshed that ensued, the thought forcing a gage from the middle-aged man. His black hair grown past his ears, cropped skillfully in a mirror, never daring to stray from the very haircut his mother ensued upon him before they parted ways. How quickly she had left, practically throwing him at the templars when his magic manifested, barely enough to spark a flicker let alone a threat. No, he had never quite had the knack of enchantment, but the glimmer was enough to petrify his mother. Packed and ready within the hour, it had never occurred to her to bid him farewell, in truth, he suspected his absence was a relief on his financial burden One less mouth to feed, an unexpected solace to a struggling serf family bound to the land. How he had missed the rural country side, longed to lay in the sunlight. Though his farming skills were less than passable, Sorley longed for his family, however submitted willing enough to the templars. Offered no refusal, allowed them to shackle him, drag him upon a cart. From there he had wandered, lacked any talent, and wore on the patience of the talented. A waste of space, much like had been on the homestead, and in truth, it never surprised him. Just like his skin tone, Sorley was beige, bland. Boring. Nothing much to look at, and certainly not worth dedicating any measurable amount of time._

_Ostwich Circle had been the first tower of Magi he dared to call home. Still lacking in skill, a boy of 17, a late bloomer by all meaning of the word. How close had come to escaping the fate of the Circle. Best not to think of it, he had concluded after his fourth relocation, a Circle within Orlais, his shortest stay. Lacking in pedigree as well as magical talent, he lasted a mere two days under their less than enthused care. Such was not the case under the Ostwich Circle. Dipped in history from their architected creation under Tevinter hands, to the inevitable cultivation of the Free Marches, things were different within the walls. Secure, and homely, the Senior Enchanter Lydia had an act for patience, and in the decade, he had spent under her custody, she had never pointed out his worthlessness. Even found him a task within the kitchens, crafting pastries to better bribe the little ones, or provide a comfort to the new inhabitants, favored to be under Senior Enchanter Lydia’s guidance. Whether they knew it or not. He had grown accustomed to the task at hand, the youngest in the kitchen, and in doing so, he felt comfortable. Dared to say he was a warm beige as he iced cookies and rolls. The only down side of the task came at the hands of a younger inhabitant, a boy not much younger than himself, but had known the Ostwich Circle at the ripe age of seven. Far younger, and whispers of his talent renowned throughout the word of mouth provided by the instructors, the lad had a fondness of sweets and a way of insults. Beautiful in his features, and sharp in his words, Merek’s thievery of Sorley’s tarts were daily, his offenses consistent. Sorley had grown accustomed to the abuse, learned early on to avoid eye-contact, going so far as to make an extra batch to avoid the boy’s affront. It seldom worked. Yet, it was only at the entrance of an unexpected arrival. A lineage that elicited rumors amongst the elders, drawing the notice of the entire Circle, coupled with her talent, Merek fell below the waist line. Forgotten, Sorley was familiar with his temper flares, often on the receiving ends. His jealousy spoiling any attention of growth, blemishing what once had been considered an otherwise angelic face. A slight that had not gone unnoticed by the Senior Enchanter, who despite her best attempts, failed to bring him back into the fold. No, that hadn’t been right. Sorley could recall faint memories, ones of which illustrated Merek often pursuing the young Lady Trevelyan, his advances often falling short of their mark. Often too distracted caring for the templar blunder, the Lady Trevelyan often devoted hours to the child’s upbringing. A disappointment to the abrasive mage who pursued her affections for a time, dismissed in his stead… Save for one time, or at least, Sorley had heard rumors._

_All of them seemed so far away, as he pressed his hands into one another. Daring to beseech his lady of flame, trembling under the man who stood before him, all evidence of the boy had been erased from history. The tower in shambles, blood dripping from the walls. Somehow, Sorley could never figure out the secrets of its supreme architecture, it remained standing despite the blow the young enchantress had devastated amongst the stones. Enraged either by the horrors succumbed at their own brethren, or the templar who dared to lay a hand upon the boy, Irail, Sorley did not know. Panicked, and terrified, the lackluster mage did not know, disoriented from the suddenness of the massacre at hand; if he had been of sound mind, he would have followed her path of destruction. Would’ve risked being run through by a damned templar had he known whose hand he would have found himself under. Endangered, Sorley knew this. Merek’s sharp, steel eyes penetrating his faith, shaking his foundation and stole his breath. He did not know what possessed him in his hasty decision. Can’t say the insanity that had drove him from his dim chances of survival, all of what hinged on Merek’s whims. Perhaps, it was the call of Andraste, entrusting him a warning to her favored Herald, the potential safety an old friend could offer. It had shuddered him, brought him to his feet in the dead of night, on delicate steps in the fallen snow. His adrenaline guiding him from their forces, each step gaining momentum. His courage sparking, or rather, his cowardice threatening to draw him back under Merek’s orders. Further, further, he sprinted down the mountainside. His feet barely crunching the snow ash he drifted from the trees, the dim fire of hope flickering in the distance._

A hiss of a laugh, it was the first time Sorley had ever tested out an audacious behavior, and for a moment. He had thought it had suited him, the bravery, the hope, all it washed away as what he knew now to be the Venatori emerged from the trees. Perhaps if he had dedicated himself to navigation courses, his attempt would have produced some merit of worth. Maybe, if he had been a mage of any honor, he could have fought his way through the line. Escaped once more, or if he had been bold, perhaps, Sorley could have produced a signal, accepting the blade that would tear him into at the warning of approaching bloodthirsty enemies. As Sorley laid there, on his back, he could feel his lip tremble. Perhaps, his death would have amounted to something, rather than another moment that ensured he was just a nameless body in a wasteland, an inevitability he had been subjugated to throughout his life. Self-deprecating, it had all been ridiculous really. He was no chosen of Andraste, nothing more than muck at the end of someone’s boot. Yet, he had hoped. Prayed for the moment, the opportunity to be so much more than his unimpressive circumstances. Longed to leave his mark upon the world, to be noticed by another human, even if only for a moment.

On his back, he could feel the wound at his torso resisting clotting, denied any chance of healing. Struggling to breathe, a knot in his throat that tore at his larynx. The sky above dull, ever so unimpressed with the sad sop that gazed at its cloudless skies. His time drawing to a close, his eyelids heavy as his pores burned under warmth. Madness, the heat of his skin only verifying his impending death. No sane person would feel a hearth amongst the snow, the frostbite claiming his fingertips. His nose. His ears. How his breath rasped.

“What a mess,” a distant voice called.

The crunch of snow under what Sorley could assume were several boots. The shifting of snow, of rocks at grasped hands. Tunneling their way through the devastation left in the wake of the Herald of Andraste’s final stand. The shift of wooden beams shifted under their weight, adjusted by unknown figures as a rough Fereldan accent, giddy at the tarnished landscape. “Think any one’s left,” the scraping of what Sorley could only guess were daggers, brought together in excitement. Maker, how could anyone find joy in such a grotesque state. This one’s foot prints barely detected amongst the patterns. Shifting his weight, desperate to call out, it was only then Sorley realized, his voice had failed him. Lost within the wreckage, words would not form, and as his eyelids drifted, the exhaustion bared on him. How long had he been left to the elements, endured such snow for it to fail him now? The realization emitting a small cry, one that would not be heard from the distance. His desperation gnawing at him as he dug his hands in, dared to risk flopping to his stomach. No such sights in the near future, it would be hours before they found his corpse. _I haven’t hours,_ he thought wearily. His eyebrows knit as tears managed past his almond eyes. His bangs stuck to his forehead, dried against the skin by old blood. _Blood_.

On a weak stomach, his strength failing him, Sorley had steeled himself to the idea, no matter how the idea would have coaxed a gage from his body, had he the energy. Evaluating his body, testing his fingers, his left-hand unwilling to budge despite the effort he provided. Unwilling, incapable. Gone. His left hand was gone. Biting his lip, releasing out another desperate cry, Sorley carved his right hand into his wound. Drabbed the blue-purple shades of his fingertips, tearing open what little scabbing had occurred. Dripping in his own blood, he desperately reached out for his target. A stone within his grasp, so long as he stretched to the fullest of his capabilities. The strain of muscles, the ache of his body screaming in agony. This was it, his moment. The one he had prayed for his own life. _Maker, please,_ he sobbed out, the light fading from his eyes. The sky no longer blue, his face snug against the snow graced grounds. Numb, it had been numb, no longer capable of enduring the cold of the pillow beneath him as his prayers fell on death ears, sleep claiming him to the Maker’s side.

Haven was a maker-damned mess. The occasional wood plank prodded from the ground like a freshly sprung sprout. The smell of decay bordering, he had questioned how Irail held up against the stench. Wondered how once so young was incapable of flinch at the horrors the Chargers found waiting their arrival in Haven. It was messier than the lieutenant had expected, devastating in the wake of an avalanche. For every body that had emerged amongst the surface, Krem had to wonder how many had succumbed beneath the sheet of ice, suffered a horrendous death, and if the Chargers would ever be able to reclaim their bodies. Such was their duty, a request made of the spymaster, and that ass of a Commander. Pettiness marred by his opinions of the Commander, bordering on unfair at this point. He would have to let it go, this the Tevinter understood. Yet, some part of him, could not fight back the grudge that threatened their colleagueship. He would have to deal with it later, he concluded, as Rocky’s impatience captivated the better of him. His mustache swaying, drawing the mercenary’s attention to the dwarf. Tripping over rocks and snow, quick to snub out the rogue’s intentions before he had the chance. One gloved hand upon his large wrist, thicker than his own. Rocky pouted, looking up at his lieutenant with a disgruntled huff of cold breath, one visible due to the dropping temperatures. Hand dropped from his pouch; the dwarf sighed. “Will take all day this way,” he complained. His nose wrinkled, cinching his scar. “One would clear it away, save us the day.” An attempt at a convincing smile as Krem’s shoulders dropped.

“Could also blow a man’s arm off,” Krem stated, “—my arm.”

“Ever think he’s compensating for something,” Dalish whispered to Stitches as she guided her staff across the snow drifts.

Rocky’s pout only deepened. “I’ve enough control—”

“Rocky, I swear you, “Krem threatened, “I will beat you with the bloody thing.”

It was the shatter of a trembled voice, a near scream that raised the hairs on the back of Krem’s neck. Shuddered him to the bone as he tore his gaze from Rocky, his eyes scanning the surrounding area. Abandoned, he had assumed the area was abandoned. The boy, “Irail, where is Irail?” His voice a clear demand, less of a command as he searched his companions.

Their reaction was swift, each Charger reaction necessary as they searched their surroundings. The swift of delicate feet that tossed a bit of snow, Krem’s fingers grasping his axe. His unease bordering his nerves. Dalish swift in her movements, her large eyes having caught the imprint of foot prints that guided her astray from her companions. No doubt Irail’s as she guided them forward. Her ears sharp, as she leaned her body into the pull of the snowy path. Her eyebrows drawn, as her lieutenant followed shortly behind. Quick, they tumbled past the area where the Chargers had once set camp. How long ago had it been, Krem pondered, his clutch on his axe growing tighter as they passed a shamble of wood, corrupt and eroding. Fire having claimed a portion of its structure, snow marred the remainder that dared endure. Harrit’s forge, it had once been Harritt’s forge. He thought under pursed lips, shocked at the damaged the Lady Trevelyan had wrecked-havoc. The details of the assault of Haven hung on the air, clasped his breath. Why was it the boy could never listen? Why is it he had such bravado for one his age… Had Krem enraged his mother so? “There,” Dalish whispered, her nimble finger guiding Krem’s gaze.

Unharmed, a relief of air that comforted the lieutenant. Maker, the lecture he could give him, would snub the boy. Irail had thought Krem deserving of a lashing? _HA,_ Krem thought through gritted teeth, ignoring the panic that his heart had shuttered. His eyes caught on the bent form of the lad, his back to him as he rocked back and forth. His voice failing him, assuming the budding warrior was speaking or not, Krem couldn’t tell. His temper having flared enough out of his reasoning, that he was nearly stomping his boot. Foolish given their surroundings, yet, he could not prevent the agitation that drew his steps. “Festis bei umo canavarum!” The sentence was surprising, having slipped from his lips before he could contain himself, but even more surprising was the hollow gaze that met the Tevinter-trained man dead on.

“S-Sorley,” the boy whispered. Grief stricken, and shocked.

Krem’s eyes fell to the boy’s arms, blood searing the armor he wore, the smear of blood on the boy’s cheeks, threatening to dye the lad’s fair hair. Signs of having pressed his cheek to the form in his arms, wishing to find life. Rather met with lifeless and unmoving. He was middle age, perhaps teetering on the later years of his thirties, the formation of wrinkles beginning to form. No longer able to claim more of his features, the man’s black hair matted in blood and filth. His almond eyes now closed; blood wiped on his cheek as his hand folded into him. Rigor mortis not having set in, fresh. Recent, Krem thought under a quite horror. Within the hour the Chargers had descended on the site. Their back-and-forth banter having escaped the man’s life, careless. They had been negligent. A wound shredded through his abdomen; it was a wonder how the man had endured such a wound until now. His robes stained, useless protection against a blade. How he had warned Brion of such a fate, he would see to her upgrades. Had to, he thought under pressed lips. His eyes finding Irails, paused. Stricken. As though he had been slapped.

“Sorry sop,” Rocky whispered, having drawn the same conclusion as Krem. His slight yawl clear across he mountain range as Skinner dug her bony elbow into his side. His head whipped to evaluate the punisher, “What?” he demanded, only to be shushed by Grim as Krem stepped forward.

Irail did not move. Did not clench the man, Sorley was it? His familiarity hinging as his eyes refused to move. Shoulders dropped; fear had claimed his movements. Rigid, his lip trembled as realization seeped into his being. Irail threw himself backwards, his hands at his side as he let out a shallow yelp. The rattle of his armor betraying him as Krem drooped to his knees, his eyes having snagged the very image that terrorized the lad, reduced him to little more than a tambourine with legs as he shook in the snow. A furrowed brow, Krem couldn’t place it, curious as to how the sharp tongue youth he had known had paled in silence. “Krem?” Dalish whispered, daring to glance over his shoulder. Her petite frame struggling to peer past the stout warrior, just as confused as he. The ominous breath of chill within the wind. The hushed whispers of the other mercenaries as the smell of blood seeped into their armor, likely to never wash off of their souls. Scratched into a nearby bolder, within reach of the corpse collapsed to the snow revealed by his hands. Blood writing, crude and harsh signs of the messenger’s agony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all,  
> I really wanted to write about Sorley, and to draw attention to how significant he is.  
> The thing about Sorley, is how average he is. He's not a famed enchanter, he's no battle harden warrior, and stealth--- lets not discuss. This idea of someone who does not stand out amognst the crowd. Plain to himself, and uneventful, and complete. utterly. unaware. of how extrodinary he is. It's easy to paint someone like Sorley as cowardly, shy, and unimpressive, but in truth, it's all of us. We are human! (most of us are right? 0.0') The most unexpected of us can make an impact, whether it's a small one you may not even notice. These little favors of humanity, saying hello to a stranger, who is able to hang on a little longer because you noticed them. In truth, I like to think of a young Irail spending time in the kitchens, sitting on a ocunter kicking his feet as Irail skillfully prepares a tart, the only person in the tower aside from Brion unwilling to judge him from his manner of birth. To Sorley, it's nothing. His job. an every day occurence, but to Irail, it matters. It really matters.  
> I hope, you know that even if it's something small, you matter.  
> You really do.  
> Until next time,  
> Flower


	17. Premonition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A riddle written in blood, and waking nightmares plague the Lady Trevelyan. Haunting her dreams, and tainting the first letter she has ever received from Krem in his absence from Skyhold. Warning or premonition, Sorley has not died in vein, as the secrets kept within the Ostwick Circle come to light in the days to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter, I wish to warn of more psychodellic themes, as well as mentioning of self-harm as these themes can be triggering for some. As always, I hope you will consider your needs.  
> If you wish to skip over this, please look/type in "NO," Brion hissed. this will begin the paragraph proceeding these themes. Thank you for choosing your needs!

Her breathing stalled, her eyes searched her surroundings. One hand wrapped around the other, clutched to her breast. Her heart pounded in her chest, the life threatened to burst from her body, welcoming her into an early grave. The growing caw of ravens, their pitch bodies looming from their perch. Red eyes that threatened to consumer her, watching. They were always watching. Brion could feel the tremble of her body, could not fight the tremor, not born of chill. The fright quivering her lip, the red of her lips having grown purple and bruised. The evidence of prior abuse yet to fade as her eyes threatened to reveal her distress. Her hair fell in waves over her shoulders, shaken from their braids. The strands hanging, beaten and battered, it was a secret she had coveted. Cornered, fought off, and yet, he knew. Unyielding. The cackle of his laugh all too familiar. The trees barely visible, the forest blanketed in sheets of gray. Her wandering gaze as the thicket of fog passed with her movements, the distant silhouettes of bodies hung throughout the branches. Blood soundlessly falling to the forest floor, lost in puddles, devoid of stench. The quite horror setting in, her voice unheard in what should have been a gasp. The faint loss of her senses, devoid of any meaning. Useless amongst the thicket, _why_ , she thought in quite terror. The only noise remaining a pounding, distant, yet close. Behind me, a shuddered jerk, her legs faltering beneath her weight, spun on her heel. _No_ , the absence, her heart? Drums? The shiver claiming the hairs of her neck, heightened and aware. The cascade of haze concealing untold nightmares, the thrum of her breast aware, what lurked in the shadows. A scratch of nails against the stones, the beating growing louder, echoing throughout the trees. _No_ , she screamed, her voice unheard in the wasteland. Her steps giving way to the terror that ate at her bones, lunging her forward. Her hands pressed to her breast as the Lady Trevelyan trudged forward. Desperation gnawing, the bones gathered in perches, bathed in blood. Thick, puddled across the ground. Splashing, _no_ , her steps should have revealed the splashing, yet her decent into madness remained still. Noise robbed of their frequencies. Silence. The harsh swallow of her throat, the birds. The deafening sound of silence bearing into her souls, the birds had hushed. Their once hungry gaze fallen from her shoulders, shuttering. Feathers fluffed as they took to the air. Her eyes tracing the feathers that drifted in the wind, yet she felt no breeze. Chill? She could not tell. Brion tremored, bone encrusted claws thrust from the depths of the darkness. The crunch of bones, blood dripping from the victim raven. Though she could not hear the screams the bird must have elicited in its final moments. _RUN_ her body screamed, her steps trembled. Her heart pounding. How had she felt such fear in a quiet world?

Brion’s steps drew forward. Threatened, and praying for Andraste’s guidance. An escape, there must be one from the winding woods. The beast following in step behind her. Her prayers hollow…Forsaken, she realized. Her steps falling silent, her knuckles growing white. Before her, a lifeless pond claimed the land. Drowned the hope of escape, puddled in dripping. The silhouette of a man looming before it’s depths. His back to her as the snap of branches drew near. How she longed to reach out to him, scream for him, and for a moment, she tried. Dared to stray into the water, reach out to the man’s shoulder, his robes a drift knee high within the water. Until she heard it, her senses buzzed in her ears, whispered her distance. Head turned, as the man cocked his head her way. A devilish smile once renowned for it’s beauty; the madness ensnared on his features. A dagger within his grasp as he toyed with it two and fro. The blood from whom she did not know staining his face, tainting his robes. Running from his fore arms, dripping soundlessly into the lake before them. _No_ , she cried pulling his gaze.

Disoriented and nauseous with every breath, Brion could see it. Emerged from the shadows, cultivating a mountain ram’s skull over its face, shrouding features save for the sharp teeth that peeked beneath the bone mask. The horns twisted, fractured. A cowl born of the feathers robbed of its victims, black as the night sky devoid of its colors. Harrowing, the dusk of the hour shouldered, hunched over as it tilted it’s had in opposite directions. The crack of bones ringing in her ears. The gasp of horror, a cry buried in her throat as a skeletal finger pressed into the dirt, bearing its weight as it crawled forward. The blood tinged, the intestine of what remained of the raven webbed between its bones. A macabre display of the nightmare’s intentions. Monstrous and hungry the tilt of the head as the laughter broke the silence erupted from the apostates’ bodies. Violently shaking with joy, the feral gleam in his eye, the blade pointed at his palm. The blood dripping between his fingers, the vibrations shattering the still of the water.

_No, no_ , the pinch within her fingers, drawing her eyes down at the hands she had tucked into her beast. The vigorous shake of her breast, the maniacal laughter encompassing the stale air. Her hands shook, the left cupping the right as she unfolded her fingers. A pressed periwinkle encompassed in a violet ribbon wilted in her palm, dripped blood. The petals escaping the folds of her hands diminishing into drops of blood as they dripped into the water at her ankles. The telling gashes at her wrists drawing memories she had sworn to bury. A past she had cast to the abyss. The crimson spreading wildly as the ribbon threatened to unfold, carried in the gush of a scream erupted from the monstrosity at her back, enthralled by the laughter. Beckoned as it hallows trembled the ribbon slipped between her fingers. _Flora, no, no, no._

_You were always mine._

“NO,” Brion hissed. Her movements swift, the blade of her staff swung wildly through the air. Her grasp at her weapon tight, the white of her knuckles with the intent to strike. Murder on her features, fear evident. The Inquisitor’s hair shook from her intricate braids, the very her mother had taught her to weave into her hair as a child, lecturing of class and beauty, a right of an Andrastian woman—an expectation of a Trevelyan. Now disheveled in her state of undress, the feral gleam of her eye as the gasp of a well-tuned accent.

Shock claimed the Lady Montiylet, her schedule tucked dutifully into her breast. Her warm eyes widened as a hand clasped at her opened mouth. The surprise evident on her features, the gasp of her accent ringing in the Lady Trevelyan’s ears. As the warmth of her skin glowed in the morning daybreak light. The sweat beaded the Antivan woman, her pride fluid in her graceful mannerisms even under duress at the end of the mage’s blade, crafted at the edge of her staff. The freckles dancing at her flawless skin, a blemish out of sight saves for the few delicate moles across her face. Despite her often-disbarring lectures, well intended as they were, Josie was beautiful. A rare beauty amongst the warriors that had fallen under the Inquisition banner. Though, Brion suspected the ambassador retained the same lethality as all of her companions did, a blade tucked beneath gold finishes and ruffles. _Ah_ , this is how she had obtained the nickname from Varric… a lazy attempt on his part. Surprising, his humor rarely fell short of its mark, as able as Bianca’s accuracy. Yet, neither were before her. Nor were the trees that claimed her nightmares. No evidence remained of her grotesque encounter, neither the beast born of horrors or the apostate who threatened her existence. Only the Lady Ambassador, at the end of her blade and the letter at her desk. The scratch of handwriting a warm surprise, beautiful in its calligraphy. A delight she wound not have suspected of the mercenary. How her heart had burst at the seams at the chanced message, wishing nothing more than to believe Krem had thought of her in his absence. How her reading had revealed her foolishness, robbed her of her naïve state of mind. The depiction etched into her brain, snubbing out what hope remained… The words haunting her thoughts. “Inquisitor, I am aware you harbor no fondness for the hour. However, might I remind you. It is your worship who requested the early rise,” her words weaved deliberately, the mark of her craft in her enunciation. Negotiating as though the blade posed at the ready were intended for her. The fault completely her own, her shoulders easing from her alarm. How this moment would horrify her mother should the Lady Montilyet write of the encounter—a surmise on Brion’s part regardless of how one sided the communication may be.

“I- Josephine, my apologies,” she managed. The Lady Trevelyan’s shoulders drooped, burdened and worn out from her night mares. The daybreak warmed her bed, the sheets tossed from the furniture in her struggle. Her cheek flushed as she smiled sheepishly at the ambassador, who could only equip a slightly worried gaze and a raised eyebrow.

The hum of her voice, and a pressed quill finding its mark on parchment, the Ambassador set to work, guiding the Inquisitor through the necessary tasks of the day, should she be able to free up the time she expected the Chargers to return to Skyhold. A request she had made at the Lady Montilyet’s expense, under adverted gaze and rosy cheeks. Yet, the Antivan woman had only smiled warmly as she did now, scratching away at the parchment as the Inquisitor dressed. The details regarding the Empress Celene as well as those of the Hissing Wastes, like sand through an hourglass, Brion paid little mind to the intricate workings embarked by the noble women before her. Her fingers snapping the buttons at her neck, her noticeably thick frame weaving around the desk of her bedroom. The stacks of requests at fingers lengths as Josephine continued through her expectations, detailing every aspect to the nines. The Lady Trevelyan’s dark eyes falling to the letter, a notice that had not escaped the Ambassador’s gaze. The curiosity grabbing her unexpectedly, the Antivan playful as she teased, “such letters are best kept at the bedside.” A chuckle and flush of her cheeks, a telling sign of the explicit writings the women suspected lurked on the parchment. Her blush growing as she giggled before noticing the pause of the Inquisitor. Yet another raise of her brow, as she delicately reached for the letter. Her movements slow, ready to withdraw should Brion request her discursion. The suggestion never rose from her, the Lady Inquisitor’s eyes faltering, her eyes caught on the raven at her balcony. It’s eyes watchful, head tilted as he appraised her. The Lady Montilyet’s voice carried, hushed and surprised. “A ballad?"

"A lady painted in blood

The curve of her lips

the Daisy shall perish

at the thrash of a whip

his eyes will follow

we must not make a sound

should the lady drown

in blood, you have been found

Darkness will fall

The periwinkle will wilt

His eyes are upon you

The lies you have built

I see you

The lies of a boy

Who fell to the true

Bathed in blood

He WILL have you.”

The Lady Trevelyan could hear the crunch of the paper, the gasp of the Ambassador. “I-Inquisitor, what is this?” Knew the confusion and fear that drew with the Antivan woman’s brow. Her soft voice trembling as shaken as the tremble of her board. Her quill dropping to the floor with a clatter; Brion dared not meet her gaze. Her eyes snagged on the bird at her window, his movements. The turn of his head all too familiar, drawing a streak of wary from her. Her stomach churned; no, she did not meet Josephine’s inquiring gaze. Strung together with bits and pieces, her stitch work of cloth was not the only sewing she needed practice. She avoided the Lady Montiylet’s eyes for fear the fabric she had pulled together to stand before her, before them all would tear under the gaze. Tucking a sharp breath in, doing her best to conceal her fears as she squeezed her eyes shut, combatting the tears that threatened the edges of her eyelashes.

“B-Brion, what does this mean?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> I'm back! I have officially defrosted from the cold spell that has hit my little corner of the world. My laptop is charged and ready, and most importantly, I am warm again! I looove winter, but my goodness, without the heater or a fire, the snow is a terrible experience! No wonder Krem hates the damn stuff ;) but in all seriousness, to all my readers who have survived this blizzard, I'm happy you're hear, and i'm so sorry if any of you have lost someone. I know it's a bit of a foreign idea to some, but this was a very real, frightening experience, and I am happy you're here <3  
> That being said, I have enjoyed making fun of my ballad-- I am utter rubbish at poetry, but, this is how we learn, yes? Trial and error! I'm ready for more. Mostly, I'm just happy to back here, writing this little fan fiction in my happy place.  
> I do apologize for how dreadfully short this update is, and will do better to supply longer content in the future.  
> We are also coming close to the parts including more of the timeline (the warden incident, the Winter Palace, the Hissing Waste), so I'm curious, what order do YOU complete these in game? Please let me know as I am greatly under going internal conflict as to the timeline for this fanfiction, and greatly appreciate some input as I research and craft this timeline further.  
> As always,  
> I AM SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SOOOOOO HAPPY YOU ARE HERE!!! I am <3 I ADORE YOU!  
> Keep doing you, you wonderful mess. I'm proud of you!  
> Until next time,  
> Flower


	18. Forgotten Letters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the Inquisitor's absence as she pursues the alleged Warden Stroud, Krem is left to tend to the little ones at Skyhold. The burden of his report of Haven weighing heavily on his mind, robbing him of his sleep. A riddle in which he as no answers, caught on his reflection a mirror. How long had it been since he had written a letter to home?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> I hope all is well, and you are enjoying the warmer temperatures, and that spring brings hyou some joy in the next few weeks.  
> In this chapter we will be touching on an especially difficult topics, and I really, really cannot express enough, please stop and evaluate your needs before delving into this Chapter. We will be touching on Krem's tense relationship with his parents as well as touching on a moment of gender dysphoria. Although in the game, it's only mentioned for a small patch that Krem rarely has these moments (I'm so glad to hear this), I wanted to draw some attention to this as it is a common, painful reality for Transgender individuals. It can sneak up unexpectedly, and can be suffocating for those who endure it.  
> So, please, PLEASE, if this could be triggering, or upsetting for you, stop at this sentence, "drawn into darkness, his eyebrows quivering." It is at the end of a paragraph, the proceeding one containing this trigger topic. Use your wonderful find tool, and key in "he was loud, or perhaps" this will skip you to the next paragraph and ensure you a safe place to continue reading.  
> For my readers who struggle with parent related topics, please stop at "another page before him. Empty" this is the paragraph in which it begins, and as stated above, use your find tool, and type in "he was loud, or perhaps" this will skip you right pass the turbulent relationship of Krem and his parents and send you straight into a bittersweet interaction.  
> (read the note at the end for a nice little summary to fill in these gaps.)

He didn’t know what to make of it; his fingers crossed over a heavy brow. Drowsy, his eyes heavy, the crop of Krem’s hair hanging muddled and unkempt, disarrayed from tossing and turning. Sleep escaping him as the late-night hour hanged heavier on him than one might expect, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. No matter how hard he concentrated, he didn’t know what to make of it. His movements slow, exhausted as the penetrating thoughts robbed him of his sleep. Something was wrong, he knew this. What it was, he could not say, but the depths of its unknown, but still inescapable even at the late hour. A scowl drawing further, a yawn unpresented as he listened with squeezed eyes to the snores of the Chargers, nestled in their cots. Safe under the Inquisition’s banners, tucked away in the barrack for the night. It was a far glitzier treatment than they had been accustomed to by prior employers, a far cry from dressing in feathers for a magister. The treatment was a bit of a treat, one each member of the Chargers savored, presented by the Lady Trevelyan, Krem suspected was born of her unwillingness to leae the many under her care without a bed. Dedicating hours to scouring the lands for the necessary resources, she was intent on ensuring the comfort of the people. Even unrelenting in her task. There had been a time or two the Chargers had offered to join her, shrinking of the potential consequences should they over step their boundaries should they venture in her absence. Yet she remained adamant, going so far as to refute the scouts the Nightingale recommended weary to draw the spies from their necessary tasks. It was one, Krem recognized was a shy kindness she nurtured. Breathing in a tight breath of air, the tension vibrating through the mercenary’s breast bone, gnawing at him uncomfortably so. Yes, something was wrong, and yet, for the life of him, he could not place the suspicion. It was like the calm before the storm, the darkened clouds that threatened to break a peaceful existence in spring. The density birds fled in their anticipation, their call for survival led by instincts. It hummed at his breast, thrummed at his bones as he shifted uncomfortably on his cot, his legs dangling off the edge now as he forced himself to breathe. Pressing himself internally, Krem focused on the impulse, drew it with gritted teeth as his knuckles grasped at the linen clothe, he’d used for a sheet.

The night air felt dense, heavy on his shoulders. His thoughts hanging on his companions as he fought back the impulse to call them to arms, the cause still escaping his comprehension. The lieutenant’s unease offered no ill will to his companions, his eyes shifting to observe them in their blissful slumber. Necessary should his fears be true in the coming days. Rocky curled up on the floor, the stout dwarf was known for favoring a solid foundation for his bedding. Long had it been since the rogue had left the confines of Orzgammar. Yet, it was these little details that revealed his upbringing, unchanged despite the distance between his kinsmen and himself. A snort of a snore, a bit of a cough as he adjusted his shoulders in his sleep, Sabnbh’s plush bunny Krem had crafted snuggled into his muscular arms. Cradling the toy as though it were a small child, its floppy ears tickled at Rocky’s whiskers that dared to swish as the dwarf did his best to ignore the annoyance. Krem pressed his lips, a strained smile. He had always considered Rocky childlike in nature, boisterous and guided by a lack of safety that beckoned him to the edge of cliffs. His risky intentions born of his own capabilities, whether they lacked in the field or not, he was bold. Most of the time, these tendencies hindered the Charger’s missions, and times such as these, the temperament proved fruitful. This night in particular, as the dwarf slumbered having fallen asleep after sharing childhood tales born of the Deep Roads, and the mighty Brontos he had known. A favorable tale for the child none of the Chargers had expected, Eoin. Though it did little to sway Rocky from his recounting, prideful of the culture he had known, joyfully acting the tale out, each movement meticulously traced by the sky-blue eyes that sparkled in the night air. Delighted by the preposterious tales only the dwarf could weave. Having equipped himself with the bunny, its flimsy structure bended to his will as Rocky paraded throughout the barrack. Gruffing his nose as though he were the dwarven mount depicted in his tales, the bunny an unsuspecting rider. Krem shifted to his heels, striking a match between his fingers, illuminating Eoin’s vibrant red hair in the dark of the night. Spirited, a mark of his temper Krem had suspected, only to find out the boy possessed no such edge, shocked at the boy’s mild mannerisms. Now snuggled against the very play sword Rocky had swung wildly, the bunny a vanquisher of Darpsawn, or well… Krem. He wasn’t the best actor, and certainly lacked Rocky’s enthusiasm, he hadn’t the act for it, but he had been willing enough to fake his own death, a wooden axe plunged between his side and his arm tucked as he collapsed to the ground. The lieutenant had never heard Eoin laugh before tonight, further surprised by Artt, who was known to exercise maturity had landed a swift assault on the dying “Darkspawn’s” gut. The boy practically bounced; leg swung on either side of Krem before letting out a mischievous laugh. His pale green eyes as lively as moss that clung to river beds that bore the same soft shades creased in laughter as the Krem stuck out his tongue, further proving his assault successful in slaying him.

The same boy, who now curled into Eoin’s back, a pillow tucked over his head. One arm slung over the cushion, the point of his elven ears peeking through the mess of sheets he had burrowed himself into in his defenseless state. One the Charger’s had never witnessed prior, his defensive temperament certainly not expected to be the first to succumb to exhaustion in the night’s routine. Yet, here he was, snuggled against his younger friend, worn out from the day’s work. No longer able to deny the rest that claimed him unexpectedly, Stitches having tucked the blanket around the boy that was now slung in various directions. Knotted in every which way. The peaceful rise of his chest only reminding Krem of Dalish’s scolding. Ciar at her petite hip, the chubby lad having grown a few inches under their care; a substantial growth in comparison to the not-mage. Her blonde hair weaved for bed. Skinner had rolled her eyes at the intrusion, likely not the maternal type, which was well enough except for the moments in which, kindness could not help but seep through the cracks. A distant past and tucked smile that drew the sadness of her eyes as she appraised the boy. The rogue avoiding the majority of contact with the lad, save for the moment in which she delicately tucked a lock behind her ear. Her cheeks growing red, and nose wrinkled with Rocky’s teasing of the delicate moment, withdrawing in disgust. She had practically dived into her hammock swiftly enough, arms folded over her sides as she turned from the companions, only over her shoulder from time to time as the night dwindled down. In part, Krem suspected it was a touch of envy, the elven woman had never openly admitted to her affections, but had been known to display them in secrecy, should one watch for the displays. Her large eyes never straying from her heart’s desire when she had handed the young boy to Krem. The two now entangled in their sleep, Skinner’s back to him.

How the young boy grasped for him, quick to weave around the lieutenant’s neck as Krem bundled him. It had become a common occurrence, an attachment the mercenary could never have expected. Nor deny the smile it drew to his own features when the boy fell into a slumber, heavy with sleep. The lad’s curls against his cheeks as he rocked quietly in the night. Grim had diminished the fires as Stitches stretched the weariness from his bones. Neither whispered a word to the lieutenant, allowing Krem to savor the moment. The last bit of the day long gone as the Fereldan veteran ushered Sabnbh from Irail’s side. Her hair drawn back for the night, tied expertly by Stitches as he hummed quietly. An old son, a folk one born of the Fereldan countryside, Krem suspected. Noticing the hushed routine, well-practiced as he had brushed the young dwarf’s hair back. Shaking his head as a sad smile claimed the older man’s face despite Sabnbh’s protesting, her declaration to stay up just a little bit longer rejected. Stern as he guided her to her own cot. Remaining awake until her long lashes folded submitted her strong will tired. Her wider shoulders tossed into a fetal position, her long hair beginning to unravel due to her constant movements guided by slumber.

The children’s insistence of bundling with the Chargers for the night was not the only unexpected occurrence for the night. Irail had taken up occupancy in Bull’s empty bed for the night. The Qunari busy chasing after some Warden or another, Krem hadn’t heard the majority of the information, a bit distracted by the new shade of rouge Brion had adorned for the day. Delicately painted upon her lips, her beauty overwhelming. Though, such the alluring call of her red tinted lips paying compliments to the Champion of Kirkwall was a well-received slap of reality, drawing his attention to the matter of hand, such as Irail recounting he had only paid them a visit because of Sabnbh’s insistence. As though her prodding had truly affected his decisions, amusing concept really. How often he dodged the young pursuer, driven by puppy love. Krem recounted how Irail avoided out right admitting his desire to stay amongst the mercenaries. Expected in his nature. For a time, he had made a display of it in his awkward way, claiming he should go, truly amusing in the way Krem had so often seen this various scene played out before. His cheeks red as Dalish insisted he stay, and in true Irail stubborn fashion, the lieutenant knew the moment the boy had sat down in the absent Qunari’s bed, he would stay the night. Needing only to satisfy his pride, a huff of his chest as he jerked his head from Krem’s sight. Ears-tinged pink, and he suspected, his nose wrinkled before tossing on his side. Rolling from him as he mumbled some bit of staying for the lieutenant’s peace of mind. His hesitation, and if the Tevinter had to describe it, his almost unwillingness had only confirmed Kre’s unease. Bit at his consciousness as he recalled the boy’s overall demeanor the past few days since their return to Skyhold. Jumpy, and on edge as he navigated the hold. His noticeable presence amongst the Chargers having increased substantially. No longer drawn to sneaking about as he observed them, Irail had uneasy. His gaze often shifting behind his back, weary of what may follow. Such unease had lent itself to prodding, a delightful past time born of Rocky and Skinner. Rocky having gone so far to have set off an elixir specifically targeted to amplifying noises. It left no trace of its existence, but its shriek was enough to turn the oy white as a sheet, the warm hues of summer robbed from its pigmentation. And yet, it gnawed at him, it pestered Krem as Skinner played a tapping game at the boy’s shoulder, swaying in the dark of the tavern, his movements sloppy as he did his best to regain himself as though he had been through a skirmish.

Drawing a match to the lantern, Krem rose from his cot, one hand delicately draping the linen sheets over Ciar as he slept soundly despite the lieutenant’s absence. Careful of his footing guided by the candlelight. Tip toing past his companions as he made his way to writing desk in which he would glance over any requests the Lady Trevelyan often left him for the Chargers’ involvement in the Inquisition. Each letter delicately folded, a stamp only nobility could obtain pressed against the parchment. Tonight, no requests awaited his response, not that he had written much to her, or anyone for that matter. His fingers danced against free parchment; his quill drawn to the corner of the desk. One hand pressed into the paper as his free hand gripped the quill uneasily. It’s ink dripping on the pages. _No, that will not due_ , he thought with a tired sigh, pulling the sheet from the desk and crumbling it between fingers. Attention shifting to the next page before him, cautious of the amount of ink he drew this time. Delicate in his movements, well-practiced, Krem’s thoughts adamant to returning to the events of Haven. Bodies upon bodies, the stench enough to haunt his memories as he scratched at the parchment. Lost in his thoughts. Biting his lip, the blood writing sprawled across a boulder in the carnage. The way Irail had drawn white as the fresh fallen snow at the sight. For a time, Krem had tried convincing himself that the boy’s noticeable fear was derived from his unfamiliarity with such scenes, and it would have made sense after all. He was very much inexperienced in the field. _Not this one_ , he thought as the bubbles of agitation began to surface, tearing the second attempt from the writing desk. Tossing it as well as caution to the wind behind his back. His scratching drawing a steady disturbance of the night air, revealing his inadequacy that laid dormant within himself. Though the lad had yet to experience a proper battle field, let alone scavenging, there was a distant gaze, something scratched under layers and layers of years that gave Krem paused. An understanding as he had shifted through the first few bodies before locating the one, he referred to as Sorley. Had it been a matter of knowing the dead? Shaking his head, the pool of his fingers drawing elegant curves all well intended. _Not this one_ , another sigh as he shifted to another page. From what he had heard of the remains of the Ostwick Circle, whispered in spectacle behind the Inquisitor’s back, what he had managed to hear before his temper got the better of him, Irail has witness death. Likely what drew him to a blade in the first place. His memory now hinging on the poem, graphic at that. The Tevinter hadn’t known what to make of it while there had always been the sorted rumor of magisters toying in the dark arts in his childhood, though they were little more than whispers. Certainly nothing to this magnitude, and he realized how unfamiliar the topic reproached upon him. Suspected the Chief would have a fit should he ever work up the courage to read the damn notes he’d sent, quick to blame his avoidance at being called to the Lady Trevelyan’s side. A pointless excuse really, the Chargers were all familiar with Bull’s trepidation. Couldn’t blame him. Though no matter how hard Krem had attempted to decipher the hidden meaning of the message in blood, he’d assumed the mass majority of it being symbolic; his wagers were as good as bog water. The depths of its meanings that stir Irail, its depictions eliciting terror in one so young. Severed bonds? His hand pausing at a sudden realization... _The boy is no mage_ … His teeth clenched, hinged on the question, _how had the boy ended under the care of the Circle?_ Though it was true the boy still had some time remaining in which his magic could ignite, the circumstances Irail had found himself in should have been more than enough to force the gift from him. To no veal, he still remained without so much as a flicker of talent. What brought the boy under Brion’s care? How, his nose wrinkled a deep breath as he attempted once more to recall the poem. It’s sickening depiction, one he suspected may have been born of the Fereldan’s love of depicting such horrors born of Tevinter. Yet, something was different, darker than any bedtime tale Rocky could weave, or tales of Olden Gods Dalish whispered as she painted cute figures with crushed berries, not that the adorable nature of her tales were intention. Just the way of her drawings, often resembled that of a small child’s, robbing the tales of the severity of the old ways. No, none of this was the source of Krem’s unease.

His fingers pressed against another page. He hadn’t known what to make of it. No matter how hard, no matter the various ways he had spun the words, it had made as much sense to him as peeking at one of the Chief’s damned incentive from the Qun. Muddled, foreign characters that resembled nothing he had ever seen. The former Tevinter soldier had never an act for poetry, in fact the only evidence he had ever studied the blasted subject was his calligraphy. It’s elegant sways, conveying urgent news. A bit of surprise for those who received his notices, clear in which the leaders of the Inquisition, namely the ambassador praised his handwriting; Lelianna only offering a small, pressed smile tucked at the corners of her reports as she simply nodded at the Lady Montilyet’s affirmation. Maker, the small gaze the spymaster that flickered his way, as quick as a flame and diminished from his sight left Krem shook as though her sharp gaze had pierced through his armor. He suspected; his parents might be pleased if he could ever gather the courage to pen them. Their dedication to his education earning some merit, should their son ever write them. Not this one, his fingers tarnishing the parchment as he twitched with frustration. _Damn_.

Another page before him. Empty, blank as the hollow approach upon his breathe. It’s not that he hadn’t considered it, sending them a letter and all that. Loads of time actually. Never seemed to make it pass the initial greeting, how does one open a pathway that was shut years prior. In which he had run from their grasp, his letters often hinged at the address. His fingers once again tearing yet another page, not baring any ink upon its weaved surface. What right had he to address them as parents? His fingers drawing through his hair. The sickening realization bleeding into his soul, his mother may very well shred the letter upon such a greeting, enraged by the ghost of a child she had left in the past. Best forgotten. He doubted she would ever covet such letters from the child she had lost to time, to expectations versus reality. He doubted she would find relief in his survival given the circumstances of their tarnished relationship. Would she care to know the very strong-willed child she had nursed upon her breast was now a capable adult… an honorable man. Krem could feel his finges now bearing into his scalp, racking at the flesh. Distraught at the memories. His lip quivering as he tore through the page. His head rocking back and forth, his back now rested against the chair. Hollow and empty, the lieutenant’s gaze drifting to the ornate length mirror that rest adjacent from him. Dalish’ personal touch to the room, insisting the Chargers needed a feminine touch should the Inquisitor ever stop by their quarters. Truthfully, it had been a bit of a whimsical buy, an unexpected impulse drawn from the elf. Never given the opportunity to own such frivolous items. Her willingness to prim her appearance in the reflection now baring down at Krem. It’s golden Halla craft flickering in the candlelight. Krem’s own reflection a stark contrast from the warm sight that greeted the elven woman. How rare it was for these thoughts to claim him, snub out the joy he had found with the Chargers, and yet, it felt as though he could not refute their approach. Drawn into the darkness, his eyebrows quivering.

He could see himself, a shell of a man. His reflection weighing as his fingers crumbled another page of parchment. His knuckles growing white as they clenched the unaddressed page. There he was, a figure in the dark only illuminated by the candlelight. His boots slipped over the medium feet, his trousers resting loosely. How carefully he had selected the oversized tunic and pants. Lacking… his reflection was lacking. The bent of his shoulders, weak in comparison to other men. His hips, a constant reminder as the binder constricted against his ribs. Dug into the flesh, rubbed him raw due to the consistence use. In escapable. A choke of a sob, all reminders. The reflection that bore at him, knew of his desires. Knew of his hopes, the way Brion had looked at him. Half pitying him for the scars she could not see, buried under fabrics. As though such things were the cause of his suffering. How he had accepted her kindness in her presentation of the salve, wishing nothing more for the misconception to become reality. Longed for her to see him as nothing more than the man he was, is, presented. How he had prayed such scars had mangled his body. If only it had been blades that tore through his flesh, marked him as they had other warriors. The realization causing a choke in his throat, his teeth clinching as he tore his gaze from the mirror. Reminded of the small child who barely peeked over his father’s shoulder at his nightly grooming. In many ways, he hadn’t changed. Always preparing for the stubble that would never come, the struggles of manhood that would not greet him no matter how desperately he longed for them to claim him. The living nightmare of reality—his reality that tore through his body ever present. Ever a reminder. It was inescapable, he was in escapable. What right did he have? His fingers muddling as he fought back a sob that threatened his soul as he tore through yet another page, sweeping the remainder from the desk. Wishing nothing more than to banish them from his sight. His fist pressed into his cheeks, bent over the desk as he burrowed his hands into his eye sockets, fighting the tears that threatened him. Dared to reveal the depths of his despair as he choked down a sob.

He was loud, or perhaps that, despite his pride, Irail hadn’t slept properly since his mission with the Chargers. His nerves having gotten the better of him in his distress. _Flora_ … The night air was stiff, dense amongst the quiet, the only audible noises… an undeniable scratching. His nightmares drawing over his companion’s absence, his fears for her safety ever present on his mind. Never did they escape him, only amplified in his caretaker’s leave. Not that he had admitted it to others, but he prayed to the Maker to guide Flora home. Her remains were not among those of the gore he had witnessed at Haven. A realization that he hadn’t decided brought him relief, or caused him to sob. What horrors had she experienced? _Maker, please,_ he thought as he trembled in the wake of the scratching. A noise that shook the young boy from his slumber. His long lashes draped over peeked glances as he dared to roll to his side, wary of what monstrosities could bare such a bite in the dead of night. Amongst hushed snores, Krem sat with his back to the developing warrior. Hunched over, the remains of torn parchment decorating the floor around him. His feet pressed into his eyes, an odd sound emerging at the clench of the Tevinter’s chest. The wood floor creaking with his subtle movements, unnoticed by the remainder of the Chargers. Something clearly claimed his mind occupied his existence. So much so that the battle warned man did not notice the shift of Irail as he drew from his bedding. His palms drawn across his face as Irail sat to better view the unexpected sight. Unsure what to make of the display, his eyes falling to the torn-up sheets sprawled across the ground. One such font at his feet, crunched as Irail’s boots tapped the wood planks of the barrack. Cautiously plucking the inscribed page from the floor, his eyes glancing quickly at the lieutenant as he dared to pull back the crumbled edges in the silence. Still lost amongst the thoughts that plagued him, the lieutenant hadn’t noticed Irail, his eyes finding the address. One so easily legible in the night air, one Milady had expected Irail to produce through his many teachings. His eyes now finding Krem’s back, uneasy and unsettled. Uncomfortable as he shifted his movements, unsure of what to do next.

Irail had little interactions with others before joining the Inquisition, in fact, he could count on one hand how many times the duty of conversation fell upon his shoulders. All of which failed in unique disappointment. The Lady Trevelyan had often scolded him for his gruff behaviors, did her best to manage some patience despite the boy’s sharp tongue. Though she was familiar with such his circumstances, she never strayed from guiding him into the light. Never shied as she gently nudged him forward, encouraging and determined to provide Irail a life in which he was emerged in warmth and companions. Normalcy, he suspected after having developed his reading as a child, pondering the pages at his availability. What life outside the Circle must be like, should he ever be permitted to leave? What a far cry from what he was presented with now, but she remained dutiful. Ever pursuing the opportunities for him to obtain a life. A life much like that of Krem, Irail suspected. The dullard’s presence a noticeable light even drudged in snow. Bit of a dumb ass that one, Irail had thought. Noticeably a pervert from the way his gaze shifted to Milady. The distant memory of Krem curled at her legs causing the boy’s nose to wrinkle. As time proceeded, Irail had to admit… he was kind. Kinder than most men, and warm. Gritting his teeth, Irail’s green eyes found the mercenary’s back, highly aware of his distraught state. Part of him, wished for nothing more than to draw himself back into bed, burry himself back in the cot, Krem none the wiser. In the past, the adolescent would have delighted in this secrecy. Equipped should the pervert ever advance on the Lady Trevelyan’s honor, and yet… this wasn’t the case. His eyes finding the apge as he delicately folded it in half. She had grown to care for them, this Irail knew. Perhaps better than the Milady herself. He fought back the chuckle of a scoff that threatened to reveal him to the lieutenant, still unsure of how to proceed. No, the lad knew better than this. Should the Lady Trevelyan ever notice her own feelings, she would likely with draw. Probably never speak to the mercenary, Irail suspected. The weight of the truth weighing on him, she had always been so wrapped up in duty. Left battered and bruised from expectations, scorned by the past. Quick to dismiss most attachments should they ever begin to root. She wanted a family, Irail had assumed this being what brought him under her charge. Yet, it had become clear she would claim no such happiness for herself. As though she were tainted. _It’s not fair_ , he thought quietly, peeking once more at the delicate calligraphy that revealed a sorted past of the axe baring warrior. _Love’s not fair, and I wish, I didn’t have to see this_. His eyebrows furrow, agitated as he bit back his spite, pushing himself to unsure feet. _Wish I didn’t know_. Flora would never forgive him if she knew of this, should he turn his back on the situation. She had always been that way. A romantic, milady had whispered to him on one such occasion as she sorted through wild flowers, willing to aid the young boy in his many failed attempts to woo the young mage, but this he knew of his young love, Flora would never forgive him should he shirk the heart’s desire of the Lady Trevelyan. It was no secret, the way Flora looked to Milady; her eyes would only follow her. How Irail wished to provide the same stability if only to earn her attention for but a moment.

“I wish, I could write my mum,” Irail whispered a confession. A heavy one, his eyes practically crafted to the parchment as he stood behind Krem.

The man shook, his eyes wide and horrified as he found the boy. His head whipped back, horrified at being caught. Although Irail refused to make eye contact. A notion of seeing the leech in such a state would have once given him delight, but now, he felt guilty. As though he had seen the mercenary in a light no such person should take lightly, only the one who could mend such unspoken wounds. Heal scars the boy hadn’t seen, or perhaps, couldn’t understand. Head tucked to his shoulder, chin dipped down low avoiding his sight, Irail offered the letter, mostly intact despite the lieutenant’s noticeable attempts against the other letters. “I-Irail,” he stammered. Grasping for words, fighting the state of himself, doing his best to tuck any evidence of the moment away as he fumbled to shove the quill and ink away. As though their misplacement would refute what he had seen. _Stupid_ … Irail thought with an eye roll as his brow trembled, baring larger emotions than he should. “’S not my business, just wish I could write ‘er.” Drawing the letter into the lieutenant’s hand, Irail turned away. Aware of the confusion on the man’s face, noticing how the warrior looked as though he could spew any moment. Sick, nauseas. Most of all, guarded. Irail guessed, he’d likely feel the same, really. He kind of did. Unsure footed as he pressed himself back into The Iron Bull’s bedding once more, turning his back on the Tevinter. Whether to give the man his privacy, or perhaps preserve his own, Irail didn’t know. Didn’t care. His mind had drawn blank, his eyes pressed together at the memory of a woman he had never met. Longed to meet. “Needn’t ask, Mum’s dead. Been dead for years. Not that they’d let me talk to ‘er…” How he hated the way his voice trembled when he spoke of her. How he wanted to toss it away, be done with it. “…but, Milady says she loved me,” he whispered into the sheets. His breathing tight as he fought back the tears at the edge of his blonde eyelashes. “Stupid, isn’t it? Love someone she didn’t know, but Milady swears by it. Love and all that.” And with that, he turned from him. Tight as he bundled himself into the sheets.

Keenly aware of the man’s gaze at his back, shifting between the letter and Irail. Left with more questions than answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!  
> What a filler Chapter, and I apologize in advance for my readers who are not fond of them. I feel like they're necessary for developing the characters, especially those who are crafted and those we do not see as much throughout the Dragon Age franchise. So please, bare with me. They are all well intended, and also mean upcoming filler Chapters will contain thsoe fluffy fill good moments. <3  
> For those of you who have skipped the paragraphs above, thank you once again for putting yourself first.  
> Essnetially, Krem has a moment in which he doubts himself, reminded of his circumstances and those of his estranged parents. Feels guilty at having taken advantage of the Lady Trevelyan's kindness and misunderstanding when she offered him a salve (for his binder, that she doesn't know about), as well as feeling in adequate. THere is also the battling of whether he has any right to refer to his mother and father as such, given the situation within their relationship. Please, understand that all of this will be ironed out, and do your best to be patient. I promise I have my reasons, and know that in no shape or form do I believe Krem (or any other transgender individual) should ever feel such away about themselves, or should ever be treated in any manner than the gender (or nonspecified gender) he/she/they identify as. As always, BE KIND.  
> Also, lets take a moment to appreciate the idea of the Chargers helping care of the little ones left under the Inquisition's care. If you think about it, there is so much going on in Skyhold. From training, to tending to the fluctation of the masses from food, to bedding, I believe it's easy for the little ones to be lost in all of this mess, and genuinely feel like the Chargers-- in all their mix-matched glory would welcome them. From Dalish weaving braides into hair, Rock bosterious in his tales, to Skinner retrieving misplaced toys from trees. Hopefully the feel good to get you through your week <3
> 
> We are also heading to some very interstic content! Who is Irail? Why is he in the circle? What of this blood writing ballad? THe mystery of a man the Inquisitor once knew, the demon army, the Game of Orlais, where is Flora?  
> I've very much made a mess of this story. LOL, I hope I meet expectations and tie up these knots well enough as the story continues, all while shamelessly declaring my love of the character that is Krem!  
> Remember, I'm so happy you are here, and have spent your time with me. Thank you so much <3  
> Until next time,  
> Flower


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